


The Providence of Eric Bittle

by emimix3



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Choose Your Own Adventure, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Friendship, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Jewish Jack Zimmermann, M/M, Magical Realism, Mystery, Providence, literary salon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emimix3/pseuds/emimix3
Summary: Eric Bittle just arrived in Providence, where he works for a newspaper. He still doesn't know the city, he doesn't know anyone - and somehow, he finds himself enrolled in a race against time to search for Jack Zimmermann, heir of the famous Zimmermann industries, who disappeared a month ago.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle & Shitty Knight, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Shitty Knight & Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 28
Kudos: 36
Collections: OMGCP Reverse Bang 2020, omg stream! please Fics





	The Providence of Eric Bittle

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> First of all, please make sure the **Creator's style is on** , if it's off you can't navigate through the story.  
> As such, it is _not_ download-friendly, I fear. You can download the HTML and navigate some, but it won't hide the other parts and all that.  
> It is mobile and computer friendly though ! 
> 
> I had already written a [Choose Your Own Adventure story last year](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068220) for the reverse bigbang, and when i saw Esmiora's incredible art for this year's bigbang I was inspired for more ! ([Tumblr](https://esmiora.tumblr.com/)|[Twitter](https://twitter.com/esmiora)|[Insta](https://www.instagram.com/esmioraa/))  
> Thanks [iboughtaplant](http://iboughtaplant.tumblr.com/) ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevie_RST/pseuds/stevie_RST)) for the betaing !!
> 
> I'll hope you'll enjoy as much as I enjoyed writing and formatting this!
> 
> **There are SEVEN endings**

** The Providence of Eric Bittle **

Start the adventure...

His bowtie was perfectly tied, his shirt not hanging out of his trousers, his hair combed impeccably, his shoes, polished – Eric was ready for work. He put on his jacket, picked the plate with the pie he made this Sunday for his colleagues (apple, of course, they were in season) and his bag, and off he went. On the way out of his apartment, he greeted the new neighbour Mister Jacob, who was just back from the market, and once out he waved at Miss Elizabeth who was, as always, at her window, looking at everyone passing the street. 

Providence was refreshing, after Georgia. For more than the cold weather; turns out that Eric was actually sold on the Big City Life. His mother had refused at first for him to move away from their small town, and even more so for him to go live in Yankee territory, but his father had actually encouraged him, for the first time in his life; it was clear for everyone with eyes, after all, that little Dicky’s place wasn’t in Madison, Georgia.

So a month and a half ago, little Dicky left his hometown, and Eric moved to Providence and was quick to find a job in a local newspaper. He was paid to write two small recipes every week, and he sometimes got to write articles about the neighbourhood’s shops – but mostly, he was doing whatever odd job the senior employees needed him to do. It wasn’t much, but Eric didn’t hate it and it paid rent.

He managed to arrive just in time at work – he saluted the neighbour in the building’s lobby, and climbed to the third floor – where the newspaper headquarters were. It was a small apartment converted into a working space, with desks in a room, a printer in another, the stocks in a third and the archives in the last one. Apparently Mister Bickerstaff – the owner of the paper – and his wife and kids used to live in this apartment until a few months ago, all while it was used already as headquarters; really, Eric wished he could have seen how cramped it was!

He greeted March Bickerstaff (the owner’s younger sister), whose desk was right across from his, and she just nodded before she focused back on her work. 

Eric opened the box in which he had put the plate with his pie, put the plate at the edge of his desk so that everyone could get a slice, and focused on his work too.

There was already a list of things to do (two telegrams to send before ten, an order for printing paper to place for next week, errands to run) waiting for him, but Eric decided to focus on his work first. He had written a short article at home last night on the new restaurant that had just opened next door, and he hoped to finish it before going to the telegram office so it could be reviewed and April could type it up for tomorrow’s edition.

Of course, that was without counting his boss coming to breathe in his neck.

“Bittle. Finally you’re here.”

“Ah. Yes, Sir. I hope you had a nice Sunday?”

“Surely you’ve heard the rumours about the Zimmermann boy?”

Earl Bickerstaff wasn’t one for small talk or politeness, that at least was the only thing Eric was sure about.

“I want you to write an article on the rumours about him – he’d have been sighted at a marketplace, or something. A grandma swore it was him, or some other bollocks. Probably hogwash, but that’s what people want to read.”

“Mmh- I mean, I have quite a lot of work today-”

“Bittle. Everyone is busy. I want this article on my desk this afternoon, for tomorrow’s paper. Be happy we don’t have an evening edition. Go to the police, ask questions, interview passers-by, I don’t care. We just need something fresh to put on the frontpage.” 

**"Sir, yes sir."**

**"I really cannot. I have a lot to do already."**

“I’m sorry, Sir – But I fear I really cannot, that with-”

“Bittle. I didn’t ask. I told. You’re going to do it if you expect to see your pay this week.”

**"Alright, sir."**

“Er- Alright, sir,” Eric finally relented, and his boss nodded and left to go talk with someone else. 

Well, now he had to write an article about ‘the rumours about the Zimmermann boy’. Which was great – but he didn’t know much about said Zimmermann boy.

He was writing about food and restaurants and the new stand at the market. Writing about a rich boy who disappeared a month ago wasn’t his competence. 

He had overheard some people talk about it at church yesterday, that Jack Zimmermann had been sighted; but Eric hadn’t paid it much attention, because the rumours clearly were diving into a phantasm realm. He’d have been seen in the street, in a library, in his family’s factory, in the hospital, killing someone in a dark alley, in a brothel. And according to the rumours, either the police would be doing everything in their power to find him, or they wouldn’t give a damn.

What could Bitty even write about it all? He wasn’t even sure who the chap was. And even less, why he disappeared.

**Check the archives.**

**Ask your coworkers for help.**

**Go to the police station.**

The archive room was a small room with no windows, full of shelves and drawers. In it, all the editions of the newspaper, plus a decent collection of _other_ newspapers. 

Okay, so. Jack Zimmermann disappeared in Providence more than a month ago. That’s all Eric had. Better start to search now.

After a while, he managed to find a few interesting papers from right after the disappearance; the most interesting were the rival newspapers that had a collection of articles spanning a few days relating to the event, while Eric’s coworker Chadrick had written for the _Providence Gazette_ an interesting note about the Zimmermann’s industries. And a big picture of the Zimmermann Family – ah, there was no doubt that Jack here was the son of his father.

Apparently, the Zimmermann family was from Montreal. The grandparents freshly arrived there from Germany, and earned their bread with a little jewellery business. Of their seven children, the oldest son took over as a jeweller, but the third, Robert “Bob”, started to invest and turned the whole thing into a very lucrative industry, and invested in some more. Robert and his wife, Alicia, a comedian, and their son, Jack, bought some textile factories in Providence last year, and had moved here temporarily to look over them during the transition period. 

And then, someone broke into their apartment and shot Bob. The story wasn’t really clear – Bob had been in the hospital ever since, Alicia refused to comment, and as for Jack… witnesses saw him run away but lost all trace of him a few streets away from his place. 

No other sighting (at least, until the past week), no body, no ransom; it is unclear what happened to him, and why Robert was attacked in the first place. 

Ah, Eric now had more questions than before.

**Ask your coworkers for help.**

**Go to the police station**

“Mmh… Have you heard anything about the Zimmermann boy?” Eric asked Frederick, another journalist.

“Not really,” he just replied, turning back towards the article he was writing. 

He was the third person Eric asked for input – and the last. None of his coworkers present at the office now took the time to give him a satisfactory answer. 

Hell. 

At least, being ignored was better than back home, but still. 

Bitty sighed. He needed to try something else.

**Check the archives.**

**Go to the police station.**

Bickerstaff told him to go to the police station, so Eric decided to go to the police station. If Jack had actually been sighted, then they would be looking for him, surely. He was big money, after all. 

He put on his jacket, his hat, and took his bag. The station was fifteen minutes away if he recalled correctly, but he really needed to drop by the telegram office beforehand. 

He was still having a hard time finding his way in the city. He could locate his apartment, his workplace – the telegram office right by it, of course – but the police station was going to be a hassle to locate. Ah, sometimes he just wished he’d carry a map with him! 

Nonetheless, he managed to find the way there. He saluted the officer at the entrance, and before he managed to tell the secretary about his enquiries – he got cut off by inhumane yells on his left.

A man was there, yelling and throwing profanities at the officers who were trying to stop him from going farther into the building. The chap was a bizarre sight, tall, wearing an out-of-place top hat and a suit of unmatched colours, and he had long hair and the most furnished moustache that Bitty got to see this week. And he was really shouting very loudly.

“Oh, goodness,” Bitty said.

“You! Why aren’t you doing anything?! He was seen – he can’t be far! Look for him, shit! Do your job!”

“Sir, we need you to vacate the premises immediately.”

“I am Jack Zimmermann’s best friend and lawyer! You can believe you’ll hear from me if you don’t start investigating _now!_ ”

Still, two policemen managed to strongarm the man out of the station, even if he kept yelling expletives on the way out. 

Wow, Eric didn’t know half of those. 

“So, why are you here?” the secretary asked again once it was calm again.

**"Actually, nothing. Have a good day." – Catch up to the man outside.**

**"I work for the _Providence Gazette_ and I need to ask questions to an officer."**

“Oh, sorry to bother you. I don’t need anything. Good bye, Ma’am,” Bitty hurried, before stepping out of the station.

The weird man was in the street, right in front of the station, and he was lighting a cigarette. He was still visibly trembling in anger. Still, Bitty got closer to him, near enough to say:

“Hello! May I introduce myself – I’m Eric Bittle, reporter for the _Providence Gazette_ …”

“What, I don’t need some gobshite to be interrogating me now- just leave me alone, I won’t talk about Jack with you,” the guy spat. “Having it all in newspapers is the last thing we need now.”

“But-”

“No,” he just said, before turning around and making his way in the crowd.

Damnation.

**Go back to the office.**

**Try your chance with the policemen.**

“I am Eric Bittle, with the _Providence Gazette_ and I have some questions regarding the case of Jack Zim-”

“No,” one of the officers around said immediately. “We won’t be talking about this open case.”

“But I-”

“We’re not going to. You lose your time here,” the police officer insisted. “Do we need to also escort _you_ outside?”

There was no need to press the matter. Eric would try to avoid spending the night in jail.

**Go back to the office.**

**Try to catch up with the weird guy outside.**

By the time Eric made his way out, the guy was long gone. 

Crap. He didn’t even have his name.

**Go back to the office.**

_ Zimmermann sighted – what we know _

_ Sunday morning, Zimmermann would have been sighted by Miss Delance near the Marketplace Square. Jack Zimmermann had disappeared a month ago in curious circumstances after an assailant broke into his apartment and injured his father, Robert Zimmermann, still at the hospital at this moment. This sighting would be the first proof we have of Jack still being alive. The rumours amplified, claiming that Jack had been sighted this week-end in various places; yet, at this moment, the police chose to not share any progress in the investigation, and whether or not any of those rumours have been well-founded. We hope he’ll be found quickly! _

**Try again...**

Eric made his way back inside after this peculiar altercation – two of the police officers were still in the lobby, talking. With all his bravado, Eric was inspired, and put on his nicest smile before going closer and engaging them.

“I am Eric Bittle, with the _Providence Gazette_ and I have some questions regarding the case of Jack Zim-”

“No,” one of them. “We won’t be talking about this open case.”

“But I-”

“We’re not going to. You lose your time here,” the police officer insisted. “Do we need to also escort _you_ outside?”

There was no need to press the matter. Eric would try to avoid spending the night in jail.

**Go back to the office.**

“Is- er, _Eric Bittle_ here?” 

Eric was eating his soup while trying to finish his article when he heard his name coming from the entrance door. March was standing here, looking at the weird guy from this morning from his hat to his mismatched socks with a lot of judgement in her eyes.

“Mmh.”

Quickly, Eric put his soup away and got up to join them at the door.

“Don’t worry, I’m taking care of this,” he said, and March immediately left to go back to the printer room. Eric turned back towards the man, frowning. “Hello.”

“Hi. I’m Shitty.”

“Yes, quite.”

“No, I-” the man started. “Can we talk, if possible?”

Eric took a step back to present the quasi empty room to the man. 

“Take a seat, my desk is next to the window. I hope you won’t mind me finishing my luncheon.”

“They give the window to the Southerner? It’s only fall, but don’t you die of the cold in winter?” the man asked, taking a chair to seat near the desk.

“I wouldn’t know just arrived in town,” Eric said, joining him. “So, insanely rude man, you wanted to talk?”

The chap laughed at that. 

“Ah! Insanely rude man, I like that! I mean, kind of- I actually came to say sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“Indeed, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s- I’m sorry. It was a really stressful year, this month especially. I really hoped that the bulls had a lead there, but of course they’re not investigating it. They barely did when it first happened, after all.”

“You said you were Zimmermann’s friend and lawyer?” Eric asked.

While doing so, he took the untouched pie to cut two slices. The man was glad to take it, at least.

“Ah, yeah – oh, dammit, that’s a good pie, that! – I’ve been looking for him ever since he first disappeared, you know. But I can’t do much, sadly.”

“I truly hope you’ll manage to find him, mhh” Bitty said, before stopping. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Shitty.”

“Yes, we had already established this fact.”

“Haha- no, it is my moniker. Shitty B. Knight, attorney at law, at your service,” the man corrected, his mouthful of pie. “It is a weird ekename for an attorney, I concede, but for complaints please go to my parents for giving me an awful first name and for my mates at Andover who never came up with a better moniker.”

“Well, then, Mr Knight; I truly hope you’ll manage to find your friend. I don’t know much about what happened, I had just been asked to write a small piece about the rumours. But it’s truly terrible- disappearing like that…”

“It is. I assume the police didn’t give you any more information on the subject than they gave me?”

“No, I fear not. I’m still at the same point as this morning.”

“I see. Well, good luck for your article. And sorry, again,” the guy said, wiping his mouth with a colorful handkerchief from his pocket, before getting up. “Truly a good pie, that; it’s a wonder it hadn’t been demolished before I arrived.”

“Please, take it all. Just leave a slice or two, March and sometimes April enjoy a bite at the end of their day; but the other coworkers seem to be scared of it and won’t take any anyway.”

Eric rushed to put the pie in the box before Mr Knight could contest, and pressed it in his hands. He truly didn’t enjoy seeing his untouched pie at the corner of his desk. 

“Ah, thank you. I’m going to be on my way, then- Work is calling.”

**"Wait! What if- we searched together for your friend?"**

**"Bye and good luck in your research."**

“Good luck, dear. I hope you’ll find your friend.”

“Would it be too much to ask if you could send a telegram if by any chance, you find something? I work at the Rosenberg cabinet, on Union Street.”

“No problem at all.”

On this, the guy saluted and walked to the door, humming while looking at the pie box.

Eric sat back at his desk. He still had an article to write.

**Write the article.**

“Wait!” Eric suddenly said.

“Mmh?”

“I. You’re looking for your friend, right? Do you need help with that?” Eric asked.

Mr Knight looked at him, frowning. 

“Why would you help? Is that so you can have a great article to write and make a name for yourself? Is that for money-”

“No, I,” Eric started, not sure of where he was going with that. “You seem like a good man. You’re looking for your friend, the police are not looking or being cooperative- Surely, you could make use of another pair of hands in this.”

Mr Knight looked at Eric, before he finally said:

“Listen. I really need to go to work; can we talk about this later? I’m free by five.”

“I- sure. Five and a half probably for me.”

“Good, then. Five forty in City Hall Park. See you then.”

Once Mr Knight was out, Eric sat back at his desk, lost in his thoughts. 

Why had he done that? 

He didn’t know the man. He didn’t know Jack Zimmermann, he barely ever heard of him before this morning; why did he care?

Eric put away the plate with the two slices of pie for March and April. He had an article to write.

He managed to write a small thing about the rumours being unconfirmed and the police not having news on the disappearance of Jack Zimmermann and having the thing validated by Mr Bickerstaff, along with his article on the restaurant and all his other tasks done before the end of the day. 

He bid his adieux as soon as the clock above the entrance signalled five thirty, and he made his way immediately to City Hall Park, right at the other side of the river from Market Place.

Mr Knight was already here, on a bench, smoking a cigarette and feeding pigeons some scraps. 

“I hope it’s not my pie you’re wasting here, Mr Knight,” Eric joked as he arrived.

“No, don’t worry. I ate the whole thing while working this afternoon,” he replied, getting up. “That was delish! Where did you buy it?” 

“I made it, actually.” 

“You did?” he asked, walking with Eric towards the nearest bar open right next to the park. “Ah, boy- that was a marvel, I say. How can your coworkers refuse a slice of it?”

“They do not appreciate me much, I fear,” Eric shrugged as neutrally as he could, taking a cigarette out of his own pack. “Would you have a match to spare? I always forget mine.” 

Mr Knight was quick to give him a matchbox, and he waited for Eric to light his cigarette before opening the door of the bar. There was barely anyone in there, but they still sat at the other side of the room, away from everyone else.

“So,” Mr Knight asked, after they flagged the waitress and ordered two beers. “You want to help me with looking for Jack, right?” 

“Mmh,” Eric nodded. “Listen. It makes sense. The police clearly aren't doing much, but you have a hard time doing it all by yourself.”

“I mean. You’re a journalist, you have access to places and info I don’t,” Shitty pointed out, moving around his cigarette in emphasis. “I definitely would need your help, the only questions are; how much are you ready to help? And _why_? I can conceive you being nice and sending me info you’d publish anyway, and I’d embrace this help, but would you be ready to do more? How much? And, again, _why_? What do you hope to gain?” 

Eric took a few seconds to think carefully. He expected this interrogation all afternoon, but that didn’t mean he had thought of an answer.

“It’s important to help people in need,” Eric started. “And you are in need, and your friend even more so. And I can help. I -oh, thank you sweetheart (the waitress had just brought their beers), I guess I _could_ write a good article of the whole adventure, definitely – but, Mr Knight, I also just want to help for the sake of helping. You seem to genuinely care for the guy, and you were really distraught this morning. I can’t, well, I really can’t imagine what it would be like to have to look for a dear friend of mine. So let me help. We can lead an investigation, the two of us- surely, we’d end up finding something.”

Mr Knight sipped his beer, pensive. He didn’t look really convinced by the sincerity of Eric’s arguments; he probably was trying to gauge what the risks were, and if he was ready to take them. 

“Okay. Let us try something,” he said. “Since Jack’s disappearance, I want to have access to his office in the factory. There are things in there that he would definitely have gone to fetch if he was running. Sadly, the foreman won’t let me anywhere in. He knows me, and he doesn’t like me much, thinks I’m up to no good. Which I am, most of the time, so kudos to him for good character analysis, but it isn’t helping me here. We could use you to give me access to the place. There’s also Bob – I don’t know how much you know the story, but Jack’s father? Someone got in their apartment, Bob got shot, Jack flew away- Anyway, Bob is in the hospital ever since and I haven’t gotten to see him. May sound stupid, because the chap is like my second father – and a better one than the first, I say. But we could go see him. See the injury. He hasn’t woken up since. We could go together; I- I don’t really want to go alone. And we could learn a lot, if we get to see Bob’s files.”

“Mmh… So there’s some options for us.”

“When, then? I could free up most of my days,” Mr Knight explained, “by working at night. Or try to do everything as early as I can to be able to leave early in the day. As long as I do my tasks, and I’m at the cabinet at some scheduled hours, I’m good. My boss and I are representing the Zimmermann family, after all- I just have to say I’m working on the case, even if right now it’s not going anywhere without any suspects.”

“I can probably improvise, depending on the workload I have. It’s really day-by-day, but I can ask to be greenlit for articles on the places we’d have to go to. The _Providence Gazette_ ’s motto is “All things Providence” and my boss uses me as a page-filler, so honestly I could justify going to a lot of places in my work hours if I have something to write about it after.”

Mr Knight chuckled at that, smiling for probably the first time since Bitty met him this morning.

“Great. I think we can work well together, Eric Bittle.”

“I think so, Mr Knight.”

“By all means, please call me Shitty. Mr Knight is my father and he’s a hornswoggler. And you shall be Bitty, because you’re so short and no one goes without a nickname around me.”

“I’m not that short,” Eric said, but they still shook hands on it.

Shitty lit another cigarette, and asked:

“So, where do you think we should go first?”

**"What about the Zimmermann’s residence?"**

**"We should check the factory’s office."**

**"We could see Robert at the hospital."**

“Would checking the apartment be an option?” Eric asked. “Maybe there’s something in there that could help…”

“I don’t think so,” Shitty said, shaking his head. “Alicia has been staying there since the incident. Won’t reply to any telegram or letter, won’t let anyone in. All my news, I get from the bodyguards. Or are they valets? Let’s go for handymen. I can try to send another letter, but I doubt she’ll reply; or at least, not right now.”

**"We go to the factory, then."**

**"We probably should see Bob."**

Eric and Shitty decided to check the factory first. Mr Bickerstaff had talked about wanting an article on the developing textile industry of the city, on all the factories growing and growing along the canal – so the following day, he was quick to agree with Eric’s proposal on visiting one, and Eric went immediately to the telegram office to send a demand to the director of the Zimmermann factory to come visit as soon as possible. The reply came during his lunch break; he was welcome the following morning to talk with the foreman and the director, but there would be no questions about the Jack Zimmermann situation, only about the factory.

That was good enough for Eric, who was just going to be here to look candid and divert the attention. He sent a telegram immediately to Shitty; all was going according to plan.

Apparently, as Jack’s friend and lawyer, Shitty knew the foreman and especially the director, and after the incident neither of them let him have access to Bob and Jack’s office in the factory, as there were sensitive documents in there. They didn’t have a key to access said office, but Shitty and his boss had been given one a few months back. The plan was for him to enter alongside Eric in the factory, slip away before Eric met with the director and the foreman, and for him to go to the office while Eric was interviewing them. He just needed to check if someone had gone to the office – which would have meant that Jack was alive and free to move, and he would probably have left a note too, because he knew that it was a place only Shitty could access.

Eric dared to hope the plan would work without any problem, because he for sure didn’t know what he was risking if they got caught in the middle of this stunt. 

This morning, he was anxious when he went out of his apartment, he still saluted Mister Jacob in the stairs, who was coming back from the market, and Miss Elizabeth, still at her window. He walked all the way to Market Place, as usual, but instead of going in the building where the newspaper office was, he stopped at one of the stands to buy an apple to eat on the way, and he continued to walk North, along the canal. The factory was one of the numerous buildings that got built in the past years near the water; most of them were making textiles and clothes. 

Honestly, in the fresh weather of October, Eric was regretting not stopping a carriage in town to bring him here. The factory was the textile factory the farthest North of all textile factories of Providence! It may have been only a difference of a few yards with the other textile factories, but truly, Eric didn’t care. He was not built for such cold temperatures! Ah, how will he be able to survive winter? His place was small enough that his bed was already basically in the fireplace, but he couldn’t carry a small fire with him at all times now, could he?

Eric was drawn out of his reverie by a loud “Hey!” on his left.

Near the road, Shitty was standing, waving at him to come here. He wasn’t wearing a fancy suit and top hat today, but a plain tweed jacket and a cap, and old shoes that had seen better days.

“Hello, Bitty. How are you?” 

“Anxious. I feel like I’m going to commit a crime, and get caught doing it.”

“Ah, don’t worry, my friend; you’re not getting caught,” Shitty said, putting his arm around Eric’s shoulder. “Shall we? This is the next building over. I don’t know the guard, so it’s perfect; let’s just say we work together and enter, we’ll separate once in.”

And they did exactly that, without any problem. Shitty slipped in a hallway as soon as they were inside and out of anyone’s sight, right before the foreman who was overseeing the production noticed Eric and went to him, shaking hands. 

“Good morrow! I am Eric Bittle, from the _Providence Gazette_ …”

“Good morning. Roger Murray, one of the foremen. Mr Hall, the director, should be here in a few minutes; do you want to wait for him here or walk around?”

Eric took a look at the warehouse. Most workers were working on heavy, loud machinery, but some also were farther away, rolling big pieces of fabric, and the only sound coming from there was some chatter. 

Maybe he could get some information about Jack from them, as he knew he wouldn’t get any from the foreman and the director; but Murray didn’t seem like he would leave him alone one second.

**Walk around.**

**Wait here.**

“Oh – well, maybe before he arrives, we could walk around? Talk a bit with the workers, see the different workstations?” Eric asked, hopeful.

“Sure thing. Let me show you around,” Murray replied.

Well, Eric won’t have any unsupervised time, unfortunately. Still, the foreman walked him around the place, showing him the different workstations. Eric got to talk a bit with the women at the cotton thread station, asking them some questions on how the machinery worked and what they were doing, all while taking a lot of notes. For most of the visit though, the foreman was leading Eric on some raised platforms going all around the building, that overlooked the whole process.

It’s above the place where the threads were dyed that the director, Mr Hall joined them. While Eric shook hands with him, he couldn’t help but look above the man’s shoulder, towards where the offices were, upstairs; he just managed to see a shadow moving. Shitty probably made it; Eric needed to earn as much time as possible for him.

“Good morrow,” Director Hall said. “Prompt start to the visit, I see.”

“Ah! Well, the earlier I have my notes, the earlier I can write my article, I say,” Eric improvised.

“I see, I see. Why an article on our factory in particular, if I may ask?” Director Hall asked. “We haven’t been open for long, you know.”

Eric better invent something credible, because with those eyes? He knew the director was trying to read him to know if it was all about the Zimmermann situation.

“In all honesty, I wanted to ask a visit of any fabric factory,” Eric tried. “To write about the new economical center of the city. You are the ones farther North, so I asked you first; had you told me no, I’d have gone down the canal until one said yes.”

“Ah I see; lucky us for having this spot, then!”

“So, tell me more; I saw a lot of cotton stations, but I heard you work also with wool here? May I get to see the spinning machines? My aunt spins wool like no one, I daresay, I need to see if those machines could put her out of work…”

“Oh, let me tell you, they could,” Hall said. “Gems of technology, if I may- They’ll put out of work all the spinners before the end of the century, let me show you…”

One hour later, Eric had finally finished the tour of the factory, his notepad almost full. He adjusted his cap, and saluted the foreman one last time – the man had followed him around the whole time! At least, Eric was sure he wasn’t snooping around the offices’ hallways – before exiting the place. 

“Pfiou.”

“I thought you got caught in a machine.”

“ _Gasp!”_

Eric clutched his heart, alert. Who- Oh.

Shitty was sitting at the edge of the road, counting rocks.

“How long have you been here, Mr Knight?”

“It’s Shitty for you,” Shitty replied (and no, Eric would _not_ say that out loud). “And more than half an hour, for sure,” he added, checking his pocket watch. “Got anything interesting?”

“If by that, you mean enough information to write an entire special edition about cotton threads? Then yes, I got a lot of interesting things. But that’s it.” 

“Well, I got what I needed at last- Wait, let us flag a carriage to go back to town.”

“I barely have a cent on me,” Eric noted.

“Do not worry, I’ll take care of it,” Shitty said, sitting up. 

They managed to find a carriage to take them quite quickly, and once comfortably installed, Shitty stated:

“I managed to go to the office. And as I expected, the first safe – the one I have a key to – had been emptied. No more documents, all the money gone; but there was this note in its place.”

Shitty handed a small piece of paper to Eric; on it, it was written, in a neat handwriting: _Knew you’d stop by, buddy. Go to work._ And there was a small doodle of a man smiling with a crooked smile.

“It’s him?”

“For sure! Even his favorite ugly drawing.”

“So, it’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes, yes. Means that everyone’s favorite theory – that the assailant had run after him, and killed him, and had thrown his body in the river – is wrong.”

“That’s great, then”, Eric smiled.

“Yep. Sure is,” Shitty smiled, holding the note close. “Thank you again, Bitty.”

“You’re welcome- Ah, we’ve already reached Market Place- Sir! I’m hopping down here!” Eric said, getting his head out of the carriage. 

Eric was quick to jump down, and once out he asked Shitty through the open door: 

“Working this afternoon?”

“Sadly, it can’t be helped.” 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your article! I’m going to buy the _Gazette_ to read it!”

Ah, yes. He had a whole article to write, now.

**Following day.**

“Oh – well, let’s wait here, it shouldn’t be long.”

“Sure thing. I think he mainly wanted to show off the brand-new cotton stations right around here, we’re the first in the world with those machines,” Murray replied.

Eric got to interview the foreman on his work and the basics of the factory by the time the director joined them near the entrance. 

“Good morrow,” Director Hall said. “Sorry for the wait.”

“Ah! It’s no problem, I have all morning free for this interview,” Eric said. “I’m in no rush.”

“I see, I see. I wanted to ask- Why an article on our factory in particular, if I may ask?” Director Hall asked. “We haven’t been open for long, you know.”

From here, Eric couldn’t see the hallway with the offices; he just hoped Shitty had managed to slip in there, and he hoped he could buy him as much time as possible.

“You see, I wanted to ask a visit of any fabric factory,” Eric tried. “To write about the new economical center of the city. And I had heard about the all-new machinery you had here, so of course I wanted to see it with my own two eyes – I come from the middle of nowhere where clothes-making is still mainly artisanal, so I admit I had been quite curious, and isn’t curiosity the best starter for an article?”

“Ah, perfect! Let me show you around, then!”

The director and the foreman accompanied him along all the cotton stations, from the start where it was spinned to the end where the chatty workers were rolling the big pieces of fabric. Of course, they all got suddenly silent when their bosses were walking around them. In one hour of touring around the stations, the machines and the workers, Eric managed to have a quite good amount of notes on the whole process on his notepad, and in all honesty? He didn’t want to hear about textiles anymore for a long, long while. 

“Do you have all you need?” the director asked, once they were back where they started. 

“Quite, I think,” Eric nodded. “Really interesting tour, thank you so much for it.”

“You’re welcome. I know you said you had all morning, and it’s quite early,” director Hall said. “If you want to see the wool machines, you’re free to go. It’s right there, at the end of the warehouse; the process is really worth writing about, but the machines aren’t as new, I fear. Mister Murray and I need to go back to work, but if you stay away from the machines you should be good.”

Eric thanked the two men again, and once both men were far enough (the director had went back upstairs, to the office, and the foreman had climbed on the platform circling the workspace and was supervising the dying station), he rushed to the rolling station, hoping the chatty workers were still as chatty now.

“Hillloa! Can I ask you a few questions?” he asked, to the first lady there, grinning.

“If it’s about Jack Zimmermann, then no, honey,” the lady replied, a hand on her hip.

Ah.

“I mean. About how it is to work here, what’s your job, about the place, all this,” Eric said.

“Who cares about what workers say?” another lady asked.

“I do!”

“Ah, well. Ask away, young man, it’s not like we had anything better to do.”

Eric turned around a bit, to look at the big machines going so, so fast behind him.

“Is it safe to work here?”

“I don’t think so,” a young girl said, her eyes pensive and her tone, whimsical. “There’s robbers all the time.”

“Really?”

“Will you stop with your lies, Emily?” a man said. “It’s not true. No one robbed anything.”

“The night guard told me the other day someone tried to break into the offices once again…”

“It happened _twice_ in two months, and both times the night guard managed to stop them. No need to worry the man about that.”

“The night guard told me the robber flew away,” Emily added, this time staring at Eric straight into his eyes. “Like an angel.”

“People don’t fly away like angels, Emily.”

Oh, well. That was worth noting, probably.

“And that’s not what the man was asking about anyway,” the first lady said in a confessional tone. “Someone got his hand stuck in a steam machine last week. I’m happy to be on rolling duty, let me tell you.”

“His whole hand?”

“Yeah, past the wrist,” the lady said, showing with her own hands where the injury stopped. “Cut.”

“Oh, wow.”

Eric asked them a few more questions, before bidding his adieux. He walked towards the exit, adjusting his cap and making sure his pen and his notepad were in his pockets. As he went out of the building, he couldn’t help but squint because of the sunlight – it was really dark in the warehouse, after all. 

“Pfiou.”

“I thought you got caught in a machine.”

“ _Gasp!”_

Eric clutched his heart, alert. Who- Oh.

Shitty was sitting at the edge of the road, smoking.

“How long have you been here, Mr Knight?”

“It’s Shitty for you,” Shitty replied (and no, Eric would _not_ say that out loud). “And more than an hour, for sure,” he added, checking his pocket watch. “Got anything interesting?”

“If by that, you mean enough information to write an entire special edition about cotton threads? Then yes, I got a lot of interesting things. But that’s it.” 

“Well, I got what I needed at last- Wait, let us flag a carriage to go back to town.”

“I barely have a cent on me,” Eric noted.

“Do not worry, I’ll take care of it,” Shitty said, sitting up. 

They managed to find a carriage to take them quite quickly, and once comfortably installed, Shitty stated:

“I managed to go to the office. And as I expected, the first safe – the one I have a key to – had been emptied. No more documents, all the money gone; but there was this note in its place.”

Shitty handed a small piece of paper to Eric; on it, it was written, in a neat handwriting: _Knew you’d stop by, buddy. Go to work._ And there was a small doodle of a man smiling with a crooked smile.

“It’s him?”

“For sure! There's even his favorite ugly drawing.”

“So, it’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes, yes. Means that everyone’s favorite theory – that the assailant had run after him, and killed him, and had thrown his body in the river – is wrong.”

“That’s great, then”, Eric smiled. “And I heard rumours about hands getting cut and a want-to-be-robber who came by and _flew away,_ if that’s any help.”

“ _Flying away_? That’s… A peculiar way to disappear, for sure,” Shitty said. “Anyway- Thank you again, Bitty.”

“You’re welcome- Ah, we’ve already reached Market Place- Sir! I’m hopping down here!” Eric said, getting his head out of the carriage. 

Eric was quick to jump down, and once out he asked Shitty through the open door: 

“Working this afternoon?”

“Sadly, it can’t be helped.” 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your article! I’m going to buy the _Gazette_ to read it!”

Ah, yes. He had a whole article to write, now.

** Following day.  **

Eric told Shitty he’d accompany him at the hospital, the following day after work. The Rhode Island Hospital was twenty minutes by foot from Eric’s work; he met with Shitty on Dyer’s street, and off they went. 

The hospital was quite modern, and huge – thankfully, Shitty seemed to know his way in there.

“Ended up there more than once,” he just said. “My student years at Brown were quite the story – almost as bad as the ones in Boston. Don’t trust horses. You know; student life.”

“I wouldn’t know. Went to Georgia for a year, but the military training didn’t agree with me; actually, the academic training didn’t either, for what it’s worth.”

“Oh. What did you do back home, then?”

“I was a cook in the small inn of my small town.”

“Did you like it?”

“Well, I’m now in Yankee territory writing articles for a local paper and runnin’ after a man I’ve never met with a man calling himself ‘Shitty,’ so you can guess the answer.” 

Shitty tapped his back, laughing. 

“Ha, you’ll see, the place will grow on you!”

Shitty led him to a building, and Eric followed him in there; they slipped away right past the secretary, towards the stairs.

“Do you know which room is his?”

“I’m still in contact with the handymen. They’re friends of mine, so they told me. I just… Never got it into myself to come, you know?”

“Yes. I guess.”

They stopped at the fourth floor. Once here, they were glad for the arrows and nurses to guide them – the place was big, after all.

They got into narrower and narrower hallways, counting the rooms to find the right one- and it was at that moment, when they were about to reach it, that Eric got his arm grabbed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The sudden stop made Eric lose his hat, and Shitty turned instantly, to see that his fellow had been stopped by a sister who didn’t look like she would take prisoners.

“We’re looking for Bob Zimmermann’s room,” Shitty stated.

“He’s a private patient. What makes you think you can waltz in there?” 

“I’m his lawyer.”

“Yes, son, of course, and I’m the Virgin Mary. Get out, the two of you.”

“Do you need a picture of me with him and his family?” Shitty asked, angry. “Because I have one at home, should I bring it he-”

“What’s this ruckus?”

A tall, blonde man had opened the door of a room, ready to jump. He was wearing a neat suit, and honestly, Eric was almost as scared of him as he was of the sister. 

“Ah! Holster, my friend – maybe you can tell this lady I have the right to be here-”

“Shitty. It’s been a while.”

There was some movement from inside the room, and a small hand touched Holster’s arm to make him move. A lady came out of the room, wrapped in a huge coat. She seemed so small, between the clothes and being next to this giant of a man, and her attitude. She had been crying not so long ago; you could see it on her face.

“Adam. We are going, please go get the carriage.”

“Righty-oh, Ma’am,” Adam said, nodding at her, then Shitty, and he rushed in the hallway.

Another man got out of the room, black and almost as tall as the first one, wearing the same neat suit and helping the lady to stand.

“Good evening, Byron,” the lady said. “Sister Clarence, it’s okay. Justin, we’re going.”

She had a nice accent that Eric couldn’t place; but as soon as she said that, she and Justin went down the hallway, leaving the two of them with the nurse. 

“Well, Miss Alicia said you can go. I want you out in thirty minutes.”

Shitty didn’t say anything, just grabbed Eric’s other arm to rush into the room before the Sister changed her mind. 

Eric wasn’t sure of what they would find in the room, to be honest.

A middle-aged man lying on the small bed, looking just like he was sleeping, without any visible injury or illness, was not the top answer. 

Bob had been in a coma for more than a month now. Eric expected him to have been disfigured, or gravely injured in a way or another, not breathing anymore, desperately thin. But no; he looked as healthy as on the picture that he had seen in a newspaper, softly breathing. 

“Oh. Bob,” Shitty sighted, rushing by his side to hold his hand. “What happened to you, old man?”

**Search the room with Shitty.**

**Leave him alone for a while.**

“Let’s search the room quickly, okay?” Eric said. “Before she comes to kick us out.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Shitty agreed, letting go Bob’s unresponsive hand. 

So. They needed to get any information they could on Bob’s state and injury. Shitty opened his shirt, to check where he had allegedly been shot, while Eric was going though the medical notes at the bottom of the bed. 

Eric didn’t know much hospital jargon, to be quite honest; but truly, here?

There was nothing. 

Nothing that could explain the fact why Bob had been sleeping for the past month. The only thing notable was that he had been shedding off a few pounds, probably because the soup they managed to make his barely responsive body sip wasn’t enough food for such a tall man.

“What about the injury?” Eric asked, scanning the last page.

“Mmh. Nothing.”

“It’s closed already?”

“No. Nothing.”

Eric raised his eyes, to see Bob, shirtless; his chest was totally bare of any injury, any bandage, any scar.

“Oh, goodness. What happened to him?”

“You got nothing?” Shitty asked.

“Nothing at all, take a look. As far as everyone knows, he’s perfectly fine.”

“Having the nap of his life, for sure. I’m a bit jealous.”

“It’s no use. We won’t get any information here…”

“Oh, on the contrary. That’s a lot of information we got here, don’t you think?” Shitty asked, buttoning up Bob’s shirt. “Something weird happened to the poor chap.”

“Maybe. I just don’t know what to make of it all, I fear,” Eric lamented.

“Not to boot you out or anything,” Shitty asked, “But would you mind... ?”

“Yeah. I leave you alone for a while. I’ll wait for you in front of the building.”

“Thank you. And- Thanks for coming with me, too. I’d never have come otherwise.

Eric slipped away from the room, leaving a few minutes to Shitty and Bob.

The hallway was silent now, except for some muffled chatter. It was coming from the room from which the Sister had rushed to stop Bitty; it was probably the Nurses’ room.

Silently, Eric walked near the closed door, his ears open.

The nurses were talking about Mister Franck from room 452 who painted the walls with his soup this morning. And a man who apparently had been rushed to the hospital the day before because he had – oh. Ouch. What an idea to stick _this_ in _that_ , really!

After a minute, Eric made his way out, trying not to get lost. A sister was kind enough to show him the way, thank God, and he sat on the stairs in front of the hospital, taking his cigarette holder out of his pocket. Could as well grill one while waiting for the fellow. Eric tapped his right pocket – and the left one. And the inside one-

Oh, no. He had again forgotten his matches at home.

So, it’s boringly that he waited for Shitty to come out of the building, ten minutes later. His eyes were still red.

“All’s good?” Eric still asked.

“Not really, I have to admit. He’s a great man, you know. He doesn’t deserve that. And you?”

“I just forgot my matches. Quite the breeze next to his troubles, I got to admit.” 

“Let’s take a carriage back downtown and grill one in there, alright Bitty?” Shitty asked.

“Yeah. I miss my bed.”

**Following day.**

Eric slipped away from the room, leaving a few minutes to Shitty and Bob.

The hallway was silent now, except for some muffled chatter. It was coming from the room from which the Sister had rushed to stop Bitty; it was probably the Nurses’ room.

Silently, Eric walked near the closed door, his ears open.

The Sister was complaining about them, apparently. Well. That wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s really not a good idea to let people come and go in there. It’s not safe.”

“Well, if Miss Zimmermann said let them in…”

“What do I know? Someone tried to break in the man’s room the other day, we can’t be prudent enough-”

“Han! It’s real? I’ve heard about that-”

“Yeah! The chap flew away when Mathilda ran to see what the noise was- she’s persuaded it was a man!”

“Mathilda is persuaded of a lot of things, after a glass or three…”

Oh. Eric tried to get a bit closer to hear better, but a shuffling noise from inside the room scared him and he ran back in Bob’s room.

“What’s wrong?” Shitty asked.

“Sorry. I was scared a nurse would catch me eavesdropping – and, listen: apparently someone tried to break in here the other night!”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t know more.”

“Do you think it’s the assailant coming to…?”

“I just don’t know… Let’s search the room quickly, okay?” Eric said. “Before she comes to kick us out.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Shitty agreed, letting go Bob’s unresponsive hand. 

So. They needed to get any information they could on Bob’s state and injury. Shitty opened his shirt, to check where he had allegedly been shot, while Eric was going though the medical notes at the bottom of the bed. 

Eric didn’t know much hospital jargon, to be quite honest; but truly, here?

There was nothing. 

Nothing that could explain the fact why Bob had been sleeping for the past month. The only thing notable was that he had been shedding off a few pounds, probably because the soup they managed to make his barely responsive body sip wasn’t enough food for such a tall man.

“What about the injury?” Eric asked, scanning the last page.

“Mmh. Nothing.”

“It’s closed already?”

“No. Nothing.”

Eric raised his eyes, to see Bob, shirtless; his chest was totally bare of any injury, any bandage, any scar.

“Oh, goodness. What happened to him?”

“You got nothing?” Shitty asked.

“Nothing at all, take a look. As far as everyone knows, he’s perfectly fine.”

“Having the nap of his life, for sure. I’m a bit jealous.”

“It’s no use. We won’t get any information here…”

“Oh, on the contrary. That’s a lot of information we got here, don’t you think?” Shitty asked, buttoning up Bob’s shirt. “Something weird happened to the poor chap.”

“Maybe. I just don’t know what to make of it all, I fear,” Eric lamented.

“I… Let us go. We won’t learn much more, I fear.”

Shitty squeezed the man’s hand one last time, promising to not wait as long to visit again; and they both made their way out of the building in silence. 

“Let’s take a carriage back downtown, alright Bitty?” Shitty asked once they were out.

“Yeah. I miss my bed.”

**Following day.**

“Bittle- mission for you.”

Eric took his attention away from the newspaper he was reviewing, to look at his boss, who was right next to him and waving a telegram. Eric took the piece of paper – that read the name of a good restaurant nearby and an hour.

“Chadrick was supposed to go, but he’s got a hitch. He should have talked with Tony Tangredi of the _Rhode Island Daily_ regarding the covering of the tennis game this week-end. You go.”

“Oh. Okay. Today?”

“Yes. He’s going to try to charm you into getting the sole coverage. Play hard to convince, but accept in the end against the sole coverage of the baseball game the week after that.”

Alright. That sounded like an easy enough mission, and logical; the readers of the _Providence Gazette_ seemed to enjoy reports of team games more than of tennis, after all.

Eric nodded, put the telegram with the name of the restaurant in his pocket, and finished reviewing his copy of today’s _Times_ before deciding to go check this Tony Tangredi’s work in the archives. His name was ringing a bell, for sure.

After fifteen minutes, Eric finally knew why the name sounded familiar: Tangredi was the one who wrote about the rumours of Jack’s sightings this week-end. And he apparently wrote about new rumours in yesterday’s edition – even if his article got far less attention, as it was printed in small in the middle of the paper. This article mentioned that Jack would have been sighted around the Zimmermann factory a few days prior.

Ah. Eric had no idea of what to do, immediately. He put back the newspapers on the shelves, and walked to the workroom to ask everyone:

“Do y’all need to send telegrams? I’m going to the office right now.”

“I got some on my desk,” Chadrick replied immediately, not even acknowledging Eric.

The trip to the office was quick. There weren’t a lot of people there, and he quickly wrote a note for Shitty at his workplace – a simple “Meeting with Tangredi for lunch. What to ask”.

Surely, Shitty, who had been saving all the articles mentioning the Zimmermanns in any way, shape or form, would recognise right away the guy’s name. And indeed, an hour later, Eric got served with a telegram that was way too long and must have cost Shitty a small fortune.

Ask about yesterday’s article. Need source, I feel like it wasn’t just old ladies rumours. Ask about sources regarding article fortnight ago about product sales to unknown company the last months. And sources on B. involvement with local jewelers. Chap wrote whole article on it but Zmmnn only involved with jewelry in M-city. Good luck bitty. BSK

Well, that was going to be a long lunch break, Eric could feel it.

Good thing for him, he had packed some biscuits in a metal tin that he planned to eat during the day – he definitely could use it as bribery to take the gentleman’s defence down.

He bid his adieux just in time to arrive at the restaurant at the agreed hours, and was there led by a waiter to a table in a corner of the restaurant.

Tony Tangredi was already here, smoking while asking a waitress all about the menu of the day.

“Where are you getting your peppers? I need to ask, I had some the other day, they were delicious, and-”

“Hello?” Eric tried, to bring attention to himself. “Eric Bittle, for the _Providence Gazette_.”

“Oh!” Tangredi said, turning towards him. “You’re not Chadrick.”

The waitress took the opportunity to run, and Eric sat across the chap.

“He couldn’t come, so they sent me instead.”

“Oh, good. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t think much of the guy. Anyway – Tony Tangredi, for the _Rhode Island Daily_ ,” he said, shaking hands with Eric.

“Oh, yes. Chadrick is… Bless his heart,” Eric laughed.

Tony tended a cigarette for Eric to take, which he did with no hesitation.

“Just to tell you, the only good thing with Chadrick was the deal we made early. The bosses send us to ‘negotiate’ every time there’s sports in the city, but they already want the same things. So we just eat on their dime and act as if we had to fight to get the deal – you got asked to let us cover the tennis game against the baseball one, right?”

“Ah-” Eric replied, surprised. “Yes, actually.”

“Perfect, then. I’ve been asked to get the tennis game, against the baseball one. If your boss asks, it took you all lunch to negotiate.”

Oh, well. That explained why Chadrick was always so glad to be asked to do this job, then.

Eric and Tony discussed some during their meal, and Tony turned out to be a nice and great guy, even if he asked _so many questions_ – especially after the main dish, when Eric put on the table the tin of biscuits to share with him.

“Oh, they look good!” Tony said, flagging the waitress for a tea and a coffee. “Did you make them?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, God,” Tony said, munching on one of them, “please replace Chadrick always?”

Eric laughed at that, and Tony rushed on a second biscuit.

“I was wondering, Tony – I read one of your articles yesterday, about Jack Zimmermann…”

* * *

Stuck at work til late. Come by 8 Barker St for dinnertime. – ERB

Shitty seemingly had a peculiar concept of dinnertime, because by the time he rang the bell Eric was certain he’d never come.

“Bitty!” he shouted in the hallway, when Eric opened the door.

“Shitty! Will you stop yelling, please,” Eric complained, ushering him in.

Eric’s apartment was quite small, the kitchen and the table being right by the door. Shitty went immediately to the stove, to see what was cooking there. To be honest, Eric wasn’t sure of the etiquette when receiving people in your home; Shitty was the first person coming here, and his Mama did all the work back in Georgia.

“It’s soup. Sit down now, I’m serving.”

Shitty waited for both bowls to be filled, the beer to be served, and for the bread to be shared, to ask about Eric’s lunch.

“So… What did you get?”

“Sources. Tangredi is really nice, that’s sure – but ah, I didn’t expect him to tell me all about his contacts just because I gave him some homemade biscuits.”

“You’re underestimating your baking, my friend. It’s so good, as if it came straight out of angel’s bosom.”

“I- thank you? Anyhow- apparently, he knows a guy, who knows a guy. This second guy doesn’t have a name, just a nickname, and he hangs in a shady bar-”

“Ah! I knew it, Bitty; it’s always nameless guys in shady bars.”

“The man probably works for Zimmermann in some way, shape or form. Maybe a guard at the factory? Thing is, he knows a lot. Overheard so many conversations. Tangredi bribed the guy who knows the guy with a coin or two, but he doesn’t really want to try his luck with the source himself, even if he definitely would have more information. He still gave me the name of the informant and of the bar, to tell me to stay away and to stay safe.”

“Oh, boy. Bitty, this Tangredi man is a godsend.”

“Ah, he sure is,” Eric agreed, producing a piece of paper with the address and the name out of this pocket. “Here. All the info.”

**"When should we be going?"**

**"But I won’t come with you."**

“Perfect. Thanks so much, Bitty,” Shitty said, retrieving the paper.

“I… I will not come with you, though.” Bitty said.

Shitty blinked. Once, twice.

“You won’t?”

“I’m really sorry, Shitty. I wish you all the luck in the world – but it’s getting too dangerous for me. If you need journalistic info, I can be your guy – but this, it’s too perilous. I don’t want to risk my life.”

Shitty’s smile disappeared under his moustache. He put the paper in his pocket, quickly.

“I see. I understand. It’s a lot to ask, after all. I- thank you again, Eric.”

**Later.**

Bitty had some regrets, on how he parted ways with Shitty. He didn’t have any news on how his research was going.

Whenever he saw the name, ‘Zimmermann’, he couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened, had he kept searching with Shitty.

A few weeks later, he got the news before anyone else, working in a newspaper. April was the one who got the telegram, and she passed it around in the entire office.

“Jack Zimmermann found dead in the canal. Burns on chest, probably killed before thrown in water. Police on the premises”

Ah, Bitty had had some regrets in his life, but none like this one.

**Try again...**

They went on Friday night to the bar. It was a small and dark place near the port, and in all honesty, Bitty wondered what the hell he was doing here. It wasn’t his element, really. Contrary to what his hometown could say about people like him, he was a nice honest boy, writing small pieces about the neighborhood and baking pies and trying his best to make people around him happy. Trying to find informants in dappled pubs, surrounded by scoundrels and dressed with his oldest clothes was far from his favorite way to spend his evenings, thank you very much.

“Shitty, I have some afterthoughts,” Bitty admitted, when they entered the place.

“Bitty, my friend, you need to _look_ like you belong.”

Bitty looked like a choir boy. There was no way around it, really.

“Let’s just sit here,” Bitty shushed, pointing discreetly at a table right in the middle of the half-full place, “drink for courage, and improvise.”

They did exactly that – if Bitty was going through his cigarette twice as fast as usual, there was no proof.

A bunch of men finally sat down at the other side of their table, and they started discussing and playing dice games. They seemed to be regulars here. After a few minutes, Shitty kicked Bitty’s shin under the table.

**Let Shitty talk.**

**Do the talking.**

Bitty made a sign with his head to tell Shitty, ‘no, you’. Shitty was happy to comply.

“Aye, gentlemen…” Shitty started. “I’ve hearsay a certain John Johnson was coming regularly ‘round this place? Would you have any idea on how to reach him?”

Bitty just put his hands in front of his mouth, breathing hard. Of course, Shitty sounded like a cop in training. The guys seemed spooked, one of them pushing away the game of dice and the others the illegal gambling happening.

They were dead.

**"Let’s pray for our mortal souls."**

Bitty nodded, breathed hard, and turned towards the men.

“Good evening, -uh. Would you- have another opening for us in your game?” he tried, putting on the table some pennies he had in his pocket.

One of the guys gave him a once-over. Bitty wasn’t trembling, not really.

“Do you even know what we’re playing, kid?”

“I-”

“You’re terrified. You’re scared we’re gonna blow yar brains out? We’re no mafia, kid.”

“There’s no mafia in Providence,” another guy shrugged.

“Just tell us what you’re here for and cut the crap.”

Bitty gulped down. He hated everything about this night, truly.

“I- We’re looking for a John Johnson.”

“No one with that name here,” the bloke replied, going back to the game.

**"Damn."**

“I’m sitting here.”

An older man sat right next to Shitty, turning the attention of their neighbors away from them. He was huge, burly, and he could probably kill Bitty in one well-placed hit.

Oh, no.

“I heard you talk about John Johnson?” he said.

Slowly, Bitty nodded.

“I know him. Won’t be here tonight.”

“Oh, well. Do you know where he is, by any chance?” Shitty asked.

The guy just looked pointedly at him. Quickly, but discreetly, Shitty dropped some coins in his hand – at least a whole dollar, Bitty guessed.

“The guy lives on 6, Sherburne Street in the Upper South. You can probably find him there later this evening…”

Shitty and Bitty were quick to go out of the bar after that. They definitely didn’t want to stay one more minute in there, especially if everyone there knew they had money on them.

“Sherburne Street, uh?” Shitty said, once they were far enough and certain they weren’t followed. “Let us go, then.”

**"Well, we have nothing to lose, except our lives."**

**"I’m out. It’s too dangerous."**

“I… I will not come with you,though.” Bitty said.

Shitty blinked. Once, twice.

“You won’t?”

“I’m really sorry, Shitty. I wish you all the luck in the world – but it’s getting too dangerous for me. If you need journalistic info, I can be your guy – but this, it’s too perilous. I thought I was going to die, twice.”

Shitty’s smile disappeared under his moustache. He put the paper he had scribbled the address on in his pocket, quickly.

“I see. I understand. It’s a lot to ask, after all. I- thank you again, Eric.”

**Later.**

“6, Sherburne street,” Shitty said, checking the paper with the address in his hand.

The building was as decrepit and miserable, as all the ones around. It was so dark, with no lights in the street at all – if the moon weren’t so bright tonight, they wouldn’t see farther than their noses. Ah, Bitty had been complaining about his apartment and his 9,5 dollars a week of salary a lot, but he realised he was actually quite comfortably installed downtown.

The door of the building was open. They entered, and started to climb the stairs. They had no idea of where they were going; at least, the doors were displaying the names of each occupant – none of them being Johnson. On the floor before the last, one of the doors was blank of any name. Shitty still went to the last floor – but no. No Johnson. The guy was probably here then, if he wasn’t under a fake name.

“Should we knock?” Bitty ask.

“I guess?”

Bitty knocked. There was some noise inside, but nothing coming near the door.

He looked at Shitty, not sure of what to do- they’d rather not wake the entire building after all. But this door was probably the only thing between Shitty and information about his friend, so there was no way they’d leave without anything.

“Push the door,” Shitty just said, impatiently.

So, Bitty gulped down, and did just that. The door was locked, but old – they just had to push with their shoulders to unlock it.

It was dark inside. The curtains were closed, and the whole room was just lighted with candles and incense; and, in the middle of the room, there were two young men, a lady – a lady holding a frog, touching it;

And the frog turned into a tall man with red hair.

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH**

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH**

Both Shitty and Bitty shouted from the top of their lungs. Immediately, the two young men jumped on them and covered their mouths, before rushing them in the apartment and closing the door.

“Lardo, the door! You forgot to lock the door!” the frog-man said.

“I did _not_! They forced it!”

The young lady walked up to the door to assess the damage – indeed, Bitty and Shitty had broken the door frame where there was supposed to be a lock.

“Ah, damned. Nursey, Chowder, sit them down.”

The two men holding Bitty and Shitty sat them on the edge of the bed. Bitty didn’t dare to move one bit. The men were all standing menacingly around them, their arms crossed and their eyes threatening.

The lady ended up closing the door again, and she locked it with a chair under the handle. Ah, here went Bitty’s idea of just rushing out and running till the morning.

She then snapped her fingers – and immediately, a few of the oil lamps around the small apartment lit, making the whole scene clearer.

The whole room was a mess, with shelves and books everywhere, the kitchen piled with dishes, and clothes in big bags. And finally, Bitty could get a better look at the people there; the tall, ginger frog-man who was wearing well-used clothes, a just as tall black man with curly hair and a beard and an exasperated look, and a tall, once again, Chinese man who seemed twitchy and nervous – both of whom were in nicer clothes than the first man.

The lady next to them was tiny. She looked Asian too, with jet black hair tied with a ribbon and a dark kind of dress that Bitty had never seen before – maybe something traditional from where she was from? Definitely not something he’d expect from a witch.

Because if the lady was turning frogs into humans, she was probably a witch, and if she was a witch, Bitty and Shitty would be lucky to be turned into frogs and not die after this encounter.

Especially when the witch walked up to them and stopped right in front of them, her hands on her hips and her stance certain – oh, Bitty felt stupid to have felt threatened one second by the three men. _She_ would be their demise, it was certain.

“Do you often barge into people’s homes?”

“You’re a witch,” Shitty just intelligently said.

“That, I am. And you clearly know that I can’t let you loose in the wild with this knowledge, right?”

Of course she couldn’t. If Shitty and Bitty went to the police station, she would probably end up hunted down and burnt alive at the stake.

At least, Bitty thought. As far as he knew, witches were a fairy tale to scare kids and witch hunts like in Salem two centuries ago were… Well, not actually witches’ condemnations. Because witches don’t exist.

“What are you going to do with us?” Bitty asked.

“I could kill you… Or I could wipe out your memories,” she said, scratching her chin. “All of your memories, I fear. I can’t really pick which.”

Bitty and Shitty looked at each other, terrified.

Ah, Bitty knew he should have not come this evening! What an idea to help people, really!

“We won’t sell you out,” Shitty said quickly. “We can just leave and never mention it ever again. No need to wipe away our memories; or our lives.”

The lady bent down, to look at Shitty eye-to-eye.

“I do not trust you one second, boy. Now, as for the wiping…”

“You can trust us!” Bitty shouted. “We wouldn’t! Who would believe us anyway, ah? Or care? But if we die- if we end up in an asylum, with no memories to speak of- well, there’s people who know we are here right now! They’ll run here with the police first thing in the morning to see if anything happened! Surely it’ll bring you more harm than good!”

The witch assessed Bitty, probably trying to read his bluff. But Bitty grew up a liar to protect himself; he sure knew how to keep his tone strong and his face straight.

“What are their names?” she asked.

Bitty was about to lie again, but the ginger frog-man was the one to reply.

“Eric Bittle, living on Barker Street, Byron Knight, new attorney at law at the Rosenberg cabinet downtown.”

The man had both their wallets in hand, and had been going through all their papers. Dammit!

“I could let you keep your memory,” the witch conceded. “I can fly quickly, after all. If anyone comes after me, I’d have you two dead before I could get caught.”

“Yes, yes. This is a perfect solution,” Shitty nodded. “No harm done, we each go our merry way without any need to hex anyone.

“Good, then. Frogs, relax.”

The Chinese man sighed in relief immediately.

“Oh, wow. That was intense. I was scared you’d go too far, Lardo, and you’d have to admit you’re not strong enough to wipe out memories.”

At this, the frog-man slowly put his hand on his head in despair while the other groaned – and the witch went from threatening to plain furious.

“Chowder...” the black man said. “Cease.”

“What? They got to an agreement-”

“I’m not going to lie, a good part of the agreement comes from the fact we are scared for our lives, so you shouldn’t say things like that,” Shitty pointed out.

“Just so you know. I can still kill you,” the witch said. “There's a hundred of ways to kill a man, with magic or without, and I do not fear getting my hands dirty. And what are you even doing here?” she asked. “I moved here last week. There can’t already be rumours about a witch living here.”

“We…” Bitty started. “We were looking for Johnson. He lived here.”

“No idea. I got this place from the landlord when the previous tenant left. It was maybe your guy- I never saw him.”

“Oh, shit! That’s rubbish, that’s what it is!” Shitty shouted. “Damn – We were so close, Bitty, I know it!”

“Calm down, please,” Bitty pressed.

Although, Shitty didn’t seem like he wanted to calm down.

“Bitty, we could have been so much closer to finding Jack tonight! And instead, we’re being threatened by a _witch_! My friend, let me shout if I want to shout!”

The witch didn’t seem to care much. She was looking in their direction, but her eyes were lost and pensive.

“Jack… Would it be Jack Zimmermann, by any chance?” she asked.

“The one and only!”

This made her and the three men share a long, knowing look.

“Listen. Let us make a deal, alright?” she finally said. “You stay silent. No mention of this place, me, or my frogs here. And I help you two to look for your friend. I’ve got access to more means that you could dream of. And of course, I’ll also go with a sizable amount of money as a reward once we find him. I’d like to upgrade this shitehole.”

Shitty turned towards Bitty, pensive.

“What should we do?”

**"We should take any help we can. And they probably could help."**

**"It is out of the question. We’re not getting help from a witch. We should leave and agree to never mention tonight."**

“I- Yes? Yes. We should… Work with the witch. It’s not like we had any other lead here. What could go wrong?”

The witch smiled smugly at that, and she offered her hand to Bitty.

“Money and silence for sparing your lives and helping. Nice to do business with you,” she said.

“Handshake? That’s what witches do too? No blood ritual?” Bitty asked, in a tone he wanted open.

“I mean, I would, but my frog Nurse over here (she pointed the black man from over her shoulder) always faints around blood. I hope you are not disenchanted.”

“Oh, no, no,” Bitty laughed uncomfortably, “don’t worry, Miss…?”

“You can call me Lardo,”

“That’s a peculiar name,” Shitty pointed out.

“Really, _Byron_?”

“You can call me Shitty.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“ _Send me a telegram if you have important information,”_ Lardo had said. _“I’ll send you anything me and my Frogs get.”_

That was an entire mess and a half, Bitty thought, as he put coffee grounds in the boiling pot on his stove.

Shitty was supposed to come for an early breakfast before they both had to work. They had to discuss the next steps to take. Ah, Bitty wished he could have slept some more!

Shitty knocked and called for him just as Bitty was getting the scone jar out of the cupboard. Bitty quickly ran to the door, and he scolded his friend as soon as he opened it.

“Shitty! Silence! People are sleeping!”

“Ah; sorry, sorry, my friend,” Shitty said, getting in and sitting at the table. “I brought some bread.”

“Perfect,” Bitty said, starting to pour coffee in two clean glasses he managed to find somewhere. “So. Today.”

“Mmh,” Shitty just mumbled, tasting the coffee after putting a spoonful of sugar in it. “Oh, boy. This is one strong drink. Cowboy coffee, uh?”

“Yeehaw. Can take the boy out of the South, can’t take the South out of the boy,” Bitty shrugged.

Shitty put some more sugar, and he ate a biscuit before pulling out his notebook out of his jacket.

“So. I’m working all morning for sure, but we have two options for today. First; the Weber-Kahn clothing factory. We could go under the disguise of you interviewing them. You surely could ask your boss if you can write an article on one of the most important clothing factories of Providence.”

“Why them?”

“I have doubts. Jack, my man, had confided in me that things were sour between the two families. Weber-Khan wanted to purchase the plot where the Zimmermanns built their textile factory, to, well, make a textile factory themselves instead of having to buy fabric… And my boss mentioned to me yesterday that Director Hall had been approached by the lawyer of Weber-Kahn to ask about buying the place. So I kind of want to pay a visit, gauge the people there, determine if they would be the kind or not to attempt to kill people in hope of re-buying their property later.”

“Oh. Would you be recognised?”

“I doubt it. Dressed like a commoner, and they don’t know me; and I’d be with you, a journalist. It should be okay.”

“And the second option?”

“Jack used to frequent a salon. He invited me several times, but I never was keen on going with him. Ah! Do I miss the chap. I’d go in a heartbeat now if it meant seeing my friend. But alas, I barely tagged along. They are far from the Harvard club I used to go to back when I had time. They’re speaking _literature_ and _poetry_ and, well, religion and philosophy. It’s not a Jewish Salon per se, but more – Jewish & friends. Open to all invited, but enough to make me feel out of place if I go without Jack. We could talk to people there, get information.”

“And could I enter it too? I’ve never been, and I’m not Jewish.”

“It shouldn’t be an issue. I have a membership, Jack made me get it; I can bring a plus one unless there’s an event. If there’s an event, come with a pie, there will be no issue.”

“Alright then.”

“So? What do you think we should do?”

**"We should pay a visit to the factory."**

**"The salon seems like the best option."**

“-our seamstresses are currently making coats,” the foreman explained, as they entered a room where two dozen women were working with black, heavy fabric. “Winter is coming, after all.”

“Do you export your goods far?” Bitty asked, while Shitty was furiously taking notes.

“Oh, yes. The whole East Coast, and even up to Los Angeles and in Canada!” Mr Weber-Kahn, the director and heir, replied. “In shops, or with catalogue orders. We truly are among the leaders in clothing in Providence. I think everyone in the city owns clothes coming straight from our factory. I recognise your jacket, with no doubt,” he added, talking about the tweed Bitty was sporting. “Nice winter apparel, from a few years back already. Definitely well-used.”

“Ah. Probably,” Bitty just said, checking his second-hand jacket with a critical look. He didn’t have eight dollars to spare for a brand-new coat, unfortunately. Then, to change the subject before also getting his pants scrutinized: “Who are your main competitors on the market right now?”

“Well, you’ve probably seen a lot of them on your way up the canal from downtown. The Zimmermann factory also bought a few of our old machines when we upgraded a few months back, so I guess they will soon start to make clothes too. But mainly, there’s a lot of factories in Pawtucket who have much more sales than us. They also have much more space. We crammed here as many seamstresses as we could,” Weber-Kahn said, overlooking all the women working, some with a baby across their chest. “But space is much more expensive in Providence, I fear.”

“Why not start in Pawtucket then, if I may ask?”

“My family made itself in Providence. My mother, Sarah Weber, is the heir of the most important jewellery of the city. Jewellery is still the main point of our company, and the jewel industry is still the first love of our beautiful city,” the director explained. “We wanted the clothing factory to be as close as possible to the jewellery.”

“Ah, I see. Now, may I ask you about those new machines you’ve got here?”

“Did anything make you alert?” Bitty asked, once he and Shitty were out of the building.

“Not really. Just boring, business talk,” Shitty sight. “I fear I fell asleep with my eyes wide open.”

“Ah- I promise you that you didn’t snore.”

“An impressive feat coming from me.”

They flagged a carriage that made its way to the city and hopped in it, not keen on walking half an hour.

“I need the notes, Shitty. I hope you took them correctly,” Bitty said.

“They’re in my personal carnet! You can’t take them!”

“Shitty! You told me you’d write down everything! I have an article to write this afternoon!”

“But-”

“Give me the notes. You’ll get the carnet back tomorrow,” Bitty said, taking the notebook out of Shitty’s hands. “Now (he checked his pocket watch) I need to go back to work as quickly as possible. I’ll never finish the article in time otherwise.”

“Yada, yada. I need to go back too, sadly. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bitty agreed.

**Go back home.**

Shitty was waiting for Bitty in front of the building after work. Thankfully, Bitty had been able to wrap up his workload early that afternoon, and it was still really bright when he got out of the building, a pie box in hand.

“Good afternoon, Shitty.”

“You managed to save the goods?” his friend asked, pointing to the pie box.

“Ah, of course,” Bitty replied stiffly. “Most of my colleagues are scared of my baking, I fear. Anyway. Is it far?”

“No, ten, fifteen minutes at most? It’s near Brown, right above a bookstore – Follow, I’m leading the way…”

On their walk there, Bitty asked, curious:

“So, what should I be expecting of this salon? I’ve never been to such a place.”

“Ah, they don’t do those down South-? Where are you from, you said?”

“Madison, Georgia. And, no. There are more people living in my building now than there were in my entire town, I think. And my time in college in Atlanta was short-lived, I fear. Didn’t get to visit and discover such places.”

“Ah, I see – well, this one salon is really a fancy book club, I think. Jack would argue they have interesting discussions and debates, but I just find it boring.”

They had stopped in front of a building with a bookstore on the ground floor. Shitty opened the door right next to it, and Bitty followed him up the stairs until the third floor – where Shitty knocked on a door, adorned by a plaque reading “Friends of David - פֿרײַנד פֿון דוד”.

A butler opened the door, checked Shitty’s membership card – and let them in, taking their jackets and their hats. Bitty was impressed, to say the least. He squirmed closer to Shitty, not knowing what to do with himself. Ah, and he also felt way underdressed, once they entered the main room, where a small dozen of people (including two women) were, either sitting on sofas with books or newspapers or at the table with hot drinks, or playing billiards – all of them wore impeccable clothes, shirts and dresses. Bitty had to sew buttons back on his well-loved shirt twice last week.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Gentleladies,” Shitty greeted.

“Ooh, Shitty! It’s been a while!” one of the men playing said. “We thought you had lost the address.”

Bitty let Shitty lead them to the sofas and sit them there, and he put down the pie box on the table, not sure of what to do.

The fellow who had enthusiastically greeted them sat right across from them, next to another man who was putting away the newspaper he had been reading.

“Who is that you’ve got here with you?” the man asked.

“This is Bitty – a friend of mine, and Jack. Bitty, this is Ollie, and Wicks.”

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty corrected, “nice to meet you.”

“Haha,” Ollie laughed. “Oliver O’Meara, and this is my good friend Pacer, if you are not much into the monikers Shitty keeps giving everyone. So, Deuce, what are you doing here?”

“I am not going to lie – Bitty here and I are looking for any clue on where Jack could be. So if you had any idea, anything he had told you…”

The two men looked at each other, saddened.

“I fear we can’t be of much help,” Wicks admitted.

“But if you find the chap, please tell him to give me back my copy of Spinoza,” Ollie added.

“Someone said Zimmermann?” someone shouted. “I believe he hurt his head and he lost all his memories!”

“I miss the fellow,” someone else said. “Was always here, like clockwork, from five to eight two days a week, on this one chair. He kept the seat all warm for me.”

“Debating in the Rambam without the only guy here who actually read the Rambam and isn’t just lying about it to seem intelligent is quite boring.”

“He helped me find work! He’s a good guy.”

Everyone was starting to go on and on about Zimmermann, but Bitty lost count quickly. By the time people had switched to small-group conversation instead of shouting for everyone to hear, Bitty turned towards Shitty, and said:

“Jack seems to be missed by a lot of people.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s an ornery man, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Or, maybe a few, but not more than average, I swear.”

“Isn’t he from Montreal? That’s what I read – that his family was still mostly doing business up there. When did he arrive here in Providence, knowing so many people?”

“Ah. Well – he went to Harvard for college, actually,” Shitty explained. “That’s where we met, and where we became best friends. He liked it here, discovered New England; he went back to Montreal after graduating, but he often came here to visit. The guy managed to smell how the textile industry would be exploding in Providence, and how it could be an incredible opportunity to invest in. He convinced Bob to try, and they bought the factory.”

“But the Zimmermann are still doing business in Montreal, right? They’re a jeweller family?”

“One of Jack’s uncles took the reins of the jewellery while Alicia, Bob and Jack came here to kickstart the factory. Actually, as things were doing good Bob and Alicia were talking about going back to Montreal soon. Jack would probably have continued to hop in between the cities until he got married…”

“So, until the end of his days,” Ollie interjected.

“Oh, stop that! Jack could have had all the success with the ladies, if only he had the time!” Shitty defended.

“Maybe, but he didn’t have the time. Because he was busy spending three hours here to keep the seat all warm for Eli’s bottom.”

Bitty laughed at that, and Shitty threw him a pointed look.

“Don’t mock the guy, Bitty! He truly could have so much success with the ladies, I tell you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Well, when you find him, you could give him a tip or two. With your pie-making skills and your nice attitude, I’m sure _you_ are highly successful with the ladies.”

“Ha. Haha.” Bitty just replied. “Yes. The ladies.”

“Let the guy alone, Shitty,” Wicks said, his eyes on Bitty as if he _knew_. “But tell me, you’re the one who made this pie?”

While Bitty and Shitty were talking, Ollie and Wicks had opened the pie box and they now each had a slice on their lap, half-eaten.

“Ah, yes.”

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” Ollie groaned. “Please, come again.”

“I won’t have much time, I reckon.”

“Mmh, I understand. But that’s quite an accent you’ve got there. We’re are you from, Eric?”

“Ah- Georgia. I arrived not long ago.”

Wicks just nodded.

“The South. What made you come all the way up here?”

“I- don’t really want to talk about it. Or know how to, anyway,” Bitty admitted.

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss the South. A shame Southerners made me leave.”

Bitty and Shitty bid their adieux an hour later. Shitty talked some more with everyone, especially Jack’s closest friends, while Bitty got roped into a poetry writing and reading circle at a table. He didn’t understand what people were talking about around him – about politics, about Pinsker’s pamphlet, about stories from their families still in Europe, about religion, about money, about furniture to buy for an apartment too big, about more books that Bitty could phantom having the time to read one day – but Bitty was barely listening. He was focused on the poem he was writing, and that he didn’t want to share.

They still had no clues of where Jack could be. But in a way, Bitty felt closer to this man he had never met.

Bitty and Shitty parted ways downtown until the morning, and once home, Bitty put in his nightstand the neatly folded poem about his longing for a home that didn’t want him.

**The following morning.**

Bitty and Shitty were sipping some coffee when they heard two knocks on the door.

Slowly, Bitty made his way there – it was still so early in the morning, who could it be?

“Who is it?” he asked, before opening.

“Ribbit, ribbit. We’re the Frogs,” an absolutely flat voice replied.

“Nursey. Put more emotion, please! You sound like Dex.”

“It’s morning, and I slipped in a puddle on our way here.”

Bitty opened the door, to see two of the three men that were with the witch. They saluted him, before coming inside and closing the door behind them.

“Hello?”

“Hello! Nice to see you. Again. We didn’t introduce ourselves properly;” the Chinese man said. “I am Christopher Chow, or Chowder; and this is my friend Derek Nurse. Lardo sent us here.”

“Your friend didn’t come?” Shitty asked, a scone in mouth.

“Dex is working,” Nursey replied.

“He’s unloading fishing boats at the port, it’s cool, no?” Chowder added. “One day he even got to see a shark! I wish I could have seen that! Anyway- Lardo did some research yesterday, and she has a letter for you.”

Shitty grabbed the letter while Bitty started fussing around in his cupboard to look for glasses or mugs for the newcomers. He finally put a hot drink in both of their hands by the time Shitty had finished to assess the letter.

“Apparently she saw some Zimmermann-branded clothing in a magical shop yesterday?” Shitty summarized. “A _magical shop_? There are _magical shops_? But what should we do? Check it, or leave it?”

“We will accompany you if you decide to go to the shop,” Nursey explained. “Even if later today; we just need to know now.”

**"I mean… A magical shop."**

**"I want to go to the factory."**

**"The salon sounded promising."**

Bitty and Shitty met with the three Frog-Men near Lardo’s building late after work. Bitty had feared the shop would be closed by the time they could go there, so far from Downtown – but Nursey had assured that magical shops were open late at night.

“There’s not many magical people, and most of them have regular lives with regular jobs. Magical life is late and hidden.”

Still, in front of the perfectly normal (if run-down) bookstore the frogs indicated them… They didn’t feel any kind of magic vibe coming from anywhere around. They were a bit disappointed, to say the least.

“We’re going to need to cover your eyes,” Chowder said, taking two long pieces of fabric out of his pocket. “It’s a secret place.”

“This is actually a really bad idea. You’re just going to kill us in a back alley,” Shitty said, raising his hands.

“Oh, please! I don’t have it in me to kill someone,” Chowder argued.

“You definitely have it in you,” Bitty said. “I know it. We’re the same.”

“The point is,” Dex argued, “why would we need to _cover your eyes_ to bring you in a back alley to kill you? We could just, you know, _kill you_.”

“Oh, Dex. You’re not helping any,” Nursey sighed. “Please put on the blindfolds. It’s not far. How do you want us to kill you? We don’t have pistols.”

“You have magic,” Bitty pointed.

“We don’t. We’re not wizards.”

“But? You- (Bitty looked at Dex) You! You were a frog.”

“Yeah. We’re frogs. Not wizards.”

Nursey sighed one last time, and said:

“Listen. Trust us, don’t trust us, but if you don’t put on the blindfolds we won’t bring you there. We’re here to help you and your friend.”

Bitty and Shitty looked at each other, and they finally accepted to get blindfolded and be led in the streets of the Upper South Side.

To be perfectly honest, knowing where they started and how long they walked, Bitty would probably be able to find the place on his own again, but he kept quiet. The Frogs finally removed their blindfolds in the inside courtyard of a building, in front of a big staircase going underground, right on a massive wooden door.

“We’re here,” Dex said, taking the lead and knocking on the door at a peculiar rhythm.

Chowder and Nursey urged Shitty and Bitty down the stairs and inside, once the door was opened by a mountain of a man who let them in, not without a dark look towards Bitty and Shitty. Both felt the immediate need to take off their hats and lower their eyes.

They were in a dark hallway, with several open doors on both sides, from which there were lights and noise coming from, but they walked past them too quickly for Bitty to take a better look inside.

“Which shop was it?” Chowder asked Dex.

“Where Whiskey works.”

“Of course it’s where Whiskey works,” Nursey said, rolling his eyes.

“Shut your trap.”

Dex finally entered in one of the doors near the end of the hallway, and Bitty followed suit-

The room, that was probably built to be a cellar, had been turned into a small shop filled from top to bottom with shelves that could probably give out at any moment under the weight of all the knick-knacks on them, and lit with may too many candles for it to be safe – and , to Bitty’s surprise, some of the candles were _floating_. What was he doing there, he wondered.

“Oh, wow…”

Shitty had gone up to a shelf to look at the objects on it – an entire collection of jars filled with yellow liquid and _things_ , and of big wooden boxes from which came a faint sound of _crawling_.

“Shitty, if you die here, I cannot even warn your family because I forgot your first name,” Bitty warned.

“I wouldn’t be surprised to cross paths with my grandmother in there, I admit; it’s typically where such an old hag could spend her free time.”

“I found the clothes!” Nursey said.

There was, in the middle of the shop, a big box in which were thrown dozens of shirts, cloaks, dresses and socks of all size, shape and fabrics.

All of them were second-hand, most well-used and fixed at places; the style was not unlike anything Bitty could have worn, but all the fabric was… solid. Resistant-looking.

“Why does all this clothing seem… off?” Bitty asked.

“Magical clothes. Most sorcerers need their clothes treated with spells,” Nursey started, “because magic and fabric don’t work well together. They want clothes that are resistant to hexes, fire, spell rebounds, or simply their own magic that comes out of their bodies. We need clothes that can shift with us, for instance; if we were wearing regular clothes, we’d turn into frogs lost in a puddle of clothing, and we’d turn back into naked humans. Those spells to treat the clothes are what make the fabric so rigid and hard to work with.”

“And, see,” Dex pointed out, showing the shoulder of a shirt fixed with dark thread, “the seams are not as solid. We can’t treat them the same way, so more often than not you have to sew back your sleeves and your pockets.”

“I see,” Bitty said, passing his hands on a silk scarf that was almost coarse to the touch.

“Hey!”

Shitty was arm deep in the box, and he brought out of it a grey-green sports jacket in tweed, with a dark red lining.

Bitty touched it immediately – this one was, contrary to the others in there, light to the touch, just like any normal jacket; but the seams at the bottom were busted and the buttons were gone.

“This is it,” Shitty said. “I recognise the pattern and the cut.”

“There’s also ‘Zimmermann’ written on the label,” Chowder added, showing the half-off tag at the collar.”

“But I don’t get it; the factory had only recently purchased sewing machines to make clothes, and everything was still prototypes, Bob couldn’t find a thing he liked. The whole endeavour had even been put on hiatus for the past few months, even.”

“It may be a prototype,” Bitty proposed.

“I doubt it. This fabric has been colored; all prototypes were made with cheaper, non-dyed fabric. It’s all in beiges and whites. No green. Has it been, mmh, treated?” Shitty asked, handing the jacket to Chowder next to him.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it, but I’m no professional.”

“We should purchase it,” Bitty proposed.

“Yes. It’s a wonder why Lardo didn’t do it herself.”

The clerk, who was reading a book at the counter, just said:

“It’s five dollars for the jacket.”

“Ah. Well, no wonder she didn’t buy it, then,” Bitty said.

Shitty purchased it without any hesitation, even if Dex was trying to negotiate the price with the clerk (the aforenamed Whiskey, apparently), and the five men left the room to go to the hallway.

“Do you want to grab a pint while we’re here?” Nursey asked.

“I’m never saying no,” Shitty replied.

One of the doors in the corridor was heading to a small pub, where five or six customers were hanging out, some playing something like dice at the snap of their fingers, some debating.

Dex sat them in a corner, and left to grab some beers, while the others were lightning some cigarettes.

“It’s… Poorer than I expected,” Shitty admitted.

“Well. There are also a few shops in the area that are better than here, I think there’s also a place like that in the pretty streets, but Lardo only heard about it. She doesn’t have the means to get in, and we can’t get in without her,” Chowder said.

“I’m not sure those ‘nice shops’ exist, to be honest,” Nursey admitted. “It seems like most magic users are poor. The rich ones would get ostracised, if not killed – I can’t imagine rich people going into underground communities in basements.”

“So… You’re not magical, right?” Bitty asked.

“No. We’re normal people, that sometimes are frogs.”

Dex came back with the beers and sat here too. The drinks were warm and tasted like piss, but Bitty would make do.

“Is it a good situation, that, frog?” Shitty asked.

“I mean. We didn’t really have a choice,” Nursey said. “We were at the wrong place, at the wrong moment, and pissed off the wrong person, and the next thing we knew we were turned into frogs.”

“It took us a week to find someone who could help,” Dex added. “Lardo recognised that we were humans, and she tried to find some spells to turn us back – she half-managed.”

“She can turn us back for what, half a day, twenty hours at most?” Chowder explained. “We often wake up as frogs and have to hop to her place so she can turn us for the day. Or we stop at her place late in the evening, so she can turn us into humans for the next day… It’s complicated. And hard to explain to our relatives.”

“But when you’re a frog… Do you think like a frog?”

“I mean, besides our sudden craving for mosquitos, we’re pretty normal…”

When they left the place, the Frogs once again covered Bitty and Shitty’s eyes, and they brought them back where they met. It was well past midnight, now.

Ah, Bitty still had to walk up to Barker Street. He really missed having a horse sometimes.

**Following morning.**

“-our seamstresses are currently making coats,” the foreman explained, as they entered a room where two dozen women were working with black, heavy fabric. “Winter is coming, after all.”

“Do you export your goods far?” Bitty asked, while Shitty was furiously taking notes.

“Oh, yes. The whole East Coast, and even up to Los Angeles and in Canada!” Mr Weber-Kahn, the director and heir, replied. “In shops, or with catalogue orders. We truly are among the leaders in clothing in Providence. I think everyone in the city owns clothes coming straight from our factory. I recognise your jacket, with no doubt,” he added, talking about the tweed Bitty was sporting. “Nice winter apparel, from a few years back already. Definitely well-used.”

“Ah. Probably,” Bitty just said, checking his second-hand jacket with a critical look. He didn’t have eight dollars to spare for a brand-new coat, unfortunately. Then, to change the subject before also getting his pants scrutinized: “Who are your main competitors on the market right now?”

“Well, you’ve probably seen a lot of them on your way up the canal from downtown. The Zimmermann factory also bought a few of our old machines when we upgraded a few months back, so I guess they will soon start to make clothes too. But mainly, there’s a lot of factories in Pawtucket who have much more sales than us. They also have much more space. We crammed here as many seamstresses as we could,” Weber-Kahn said, overlooking all the women working, some with a baby across their chest. “But space is much more expensive in Providence, I fear.”

“Why not start in Pawtucket then, if I may ask?”

“My family made itself in Providence. My mother, Sarah Weber, is the heir of the most important jewellery of the city. Jewellery is still the main point of our company, and the jewel industry is still the first love of our beautiful city,” the director explained. “We wanted the clothing factory to be as close as possible to the jewellery.”

“Ah, I see. Now, may I ask you about those new machines you’ve got here?”

“Did anything make you alert?” Bitty asked, once he and Shitty were out of the building.

“Not really. Just boring, business talk,” Shitty sight. “I fear I fell asleep with my eyes wide open.”

“Ah- I promise you that you didn’t snore.”

“An impressive feat coming from me.”

They flagged a carriage that made its way to the city and hopped in it, not keen on walking half an hour.

“I need the notes, Shitty. I hope you took them correctly,” Bitty said.

“They’re in my personal carnet! You can’t take them!”

“Shitty! You told me you’d write down everything! I have an article to write this afternoon!”

“But-”

“Give me the notes. You’ll get the carnet back tomorrow,” Bitty said, taking the notebook out of Shitty’s hands. “Now (he checked his pocket watch) I need to go back to work as quickly as possible. I’ll never finish the article in time otherwise.”

“Yada, yada. I need to go back too, sadly. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bitty agreed.

**Following morning.**

Shitty was waiting for Bitty in front of the building after work. Thankfully, Bitty had been able to wrap up his workload early that afternoon, and it was still really bright when he got out of the building, a pie box in hand.

“Good afternoon, Shitty.”

“You managed to save the goods?” his friend asked, pointing to the pie box.

“Ah, of course,” Bitty replied stiffly. “Most of my colleagues are scared of my baking, I fear. Anyway. Is it far?”

“No, ten, fifteen minutes at most? It’s near Brown, right above a bookstore – Follow, I’m leading the way…”

On their walk there, Bitty asked, curious:

“So, what should I be expecting of this salon? I’ve never been to such a place.”

“Ah, they don’t do those down South-? Where are you from, you said?”

“Madison, Georgia. And, no. There are more people living in my building now than there were in my entire town, I think. And my time in college in Atlanta was short-lived, I fear. Didn’t get to visit and discover such places.”

“Ah, I see – well, this one salon is really a fancy book club, I think. Jack would argue they have interesting discussions and debates, but I just find it boring.”

They had stopped in front of a building with a bookstore on the ground floor. Shitty opened the door right next to it, and Bitty followed him up the stairs until the third floor – where Shitty knocked on a door, adorned by a plaque reading “Friends of David - פֿרײַנד פֿון דוד”.

A butler opened the door, checked Shitty’s membership card – and let them in, taking their jackets and their hats. Bitty was impressed, to say the least. He squirmed closer to Shitty, not knowing what to do with himself. Ah, and he also felt way underdressed, once they entered the main room, where a small dozen of people (including two women) were, either sitting on sofas with books or newspapers or at the table with hot drinks, or playing billiards – all of them wore impeccable clothes, shirts and dresses. Bitty had to sew buttons back on his well-loved shirt twice last week.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Gentleladies,” Shitty greeted.

“Ooh, Shitty! It’s been a while!” one of the men playing said. “We thought you had lost the address.”

Bitty let Shitty lead them to the sofas and sit them there, and he put down the pie box on the table, not sure of what to do.

The fellow who had enthusiastically greeted them sat right across from them, next to another man who was putting away the newspaper he had been reading.

“Who is that you’ve got here with you?” the man asked.

“This is Bitty – a friend of mine, and Jack. Bitty, this is Ollie, and Wicks.”

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty corrected, “nice to meet you.”

“Haha,” Ollie laughed. “Oliver O’Meara, and this is my good friend Pacer, if you are not much into the monikers Shitty keeps giving everyone. So, Deuce, what are you doing here?”

“I am not going to lie – Bitty here and I are looking for any clue on where Jack could be. So if you had any idea, anything he had told you…”

The two men looked at each other, saddened.

“I fear we can’t be of much help,” Wicks admitted.

“But if you find the chap, please tell him to give me back my copy of Spinoza,” Ollie added.

“Someone said Zimmermann?” someone shouted. “I believe he hurt his head and he lost all his memories!”

“I miss the fellow,” someone else said. “Was always here, like clockwork, from five to eight two days a week, on this one chair. He kept the seat all warm for me.”

“Debating in the Rambam without the only guy here who actually read the Rambam and isn’t just lying about it to seem intelligent is quite boring.”

“He helped me find work! He’s a good guy.”

Everyone was starting to go on and on about Zimmermann, but Bitty lost count quickly. By the time people had switched to small-group conversation instead of shouting for everyone to hear, Bitty turned towards Shitty, and said:

“Jack seems to be missed by a lot of people.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s an ornery man, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Or, maybe a few, but not more than average, I swear.”

“Isn’t he from Montreal? That’s what I read – that his family was still mostly doing business up there. When did he arrive here in Providence, knowing so many people?”

“Ah. Well – he went to Harvard for college, actually,” Shitty explained. “That’s where we met, and where we became best friends. He liked it here, discovered New England; he went back to Montreal after graduating, but he often came here to visit. The guy managed to smell how the textile industry would be exploding in Providence, and how it could be an incredible opportunity to invest in. He convinced Bob to try, and they bought the factory.”

“But the Zimmermann are still doing business in Montreal, right? They’re a jeweller family?”

“One of Jack’s uncles took the reins of the jewellery while Alicia, Bob and Jack came here to kickstart the factory. Actually, as things were doing good Bob and Alicia were talking about going back to Montreal soon. Jack would probably have continued to hop in between the cities until he got married…”

“So, until the end of his days,” Ollie interjected.

“Oh, stop that! Jack could have had all the success with the ladies, if only he had the time!” Shitty defended.

“Maybe, but he didn’t have the time. Because he was busy spending three hours here to keep the seat all warm for Eli’s bottom.”

Bitty laughed at that, and Shitty threw him a pointed look.

“Don’t mock the guy, Bitty! He truly could have so much success with the ladies, I tell you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Well, when you find him, you could give him a tip or two. With your pie-making skills and your nice attitude, I’m sure _you_ are highly successful with the ladies.”

“Ha. Haha.” Bitty just replied. “Yes. The ladies.”

“Let the guy alone, Shitty,” Wicks said, his eyes on Bitty as if he _knew_. “But tell me, you’re the one who made this pie?”

While Bitty and Shitty were talking, Ollie and Wicks had opened the pie box and they now each had a slice on their lap, half-eaten.

“Ah, yes.”

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” Ollie groaned. “Please, come again.”

“I won’t have much time, I reckon.”

“Mmh, I understand. But that’s quite an accent you’ve got there. We’re are you from, Eric?”

“Ah- Georgia. I arrived not long ago.”

Wicks just nodded.

“The South. What made you come all the way up here?”

“I- don’t really want to talk about it. Or know how to, anyway,” Bitty admitted.

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss the South. A shame Southerners made me leave.”

Bitty and Shitty bid their adieux an hour later. Shitty talked some more with everyone, especially Jack’s closest friends, while Bitty got roped into a poetry writing and reading circle at a table. He didn’t understand what people were talking about around him – about politics, about Pinsker’s pamphlet, about stories from their families still in Europe, about religion, about money, about furniture to buy for an apartment too big, about more books that Bitty could phantom having the time to read one day – but Bitty was barely listening. He was focused on the poem he was writing, and that he didn’t want to share.

They still had no clues of where Jack could be. But in a way, Bitty felt closer to this man he had never met.

Bitty and Shitty parted ways downtown until the morning, and once home, Bitty put in his nightstand the neatly folded poem about his longing for a home that didn’t want him.

**Following morning.**

“No,” Bitty said, shaking his head. “We can’t. We don’t need your help, witch.”

“Well. Less money for me,” she said. “But you still better keep your mouths shut, fellows. I know who you are, I know where you live, I won’t hesitate. Frogs. Get them out.”

* * *

That was an entire mess and a half, Bitty thought, as he put coffee grounds in the boiling pot on his stove.

Shitty was supposed to come for an early breakfast before they both had to work. They had to discuss the next steps to take. Ah, Bitty wished he could have slept some more!

Shitty knocked and called for him just as Bitty was getting the scone jar out of the cupboard. Bitty quickly ran to the door, and he scolded his friend as soon as he opened it.

“Shitty! Silence! People are sleeping!”

“Ah; sorry, sorry, my friend,” Shitty said, getting in and sitting at the table. “I brought some bread.”

“Perfect,” Bitty said, starting to pour coffee in two clean glasses he managed to find somewhere. “So. Today.”

“Mmh,” Shitty just mumbled, tasting the coffee after putting a spoonful of sugar in it. “Oh, boy. This is one strong drink. Cowboy coffee, uh?”

“Yeehaw. Can take the boy out of the South, can’t take the South out of the boy”, Bitty shrugged.

Shitty put some more sugar, and he ate a biscuit before pulling his notebook out of his jacket.

“So. I’m working all morning for sure, but we have two options for today. First; the Weber-Kahn clothing factory. We could go under the disguise of you interviewing them. You surely could ask your boss if you can write an article on one of the most important clothing factories of Providence.”

“Why them?”

“I have doubts. Jack, my man, had confided in me that things were sour between the two families. Weber-Khan wanted to purchase the plot where the Zimmermanns built their textile factory, to, well, make a textile factory themselves instead of having to buy fabric… And my boss mentioned to me yesterday that Director Hall had been approached by the lawyer of Weber-Kahn to ask about buying the place. So I kind of want to pay a visit, gauge the people there, determine if they would be the kind or not to attempt to kill people in hope of re-buying their property later.”

“Oh. Would you be recognised?”

“I doubt it. Dressed like a commoner, and they don’t know me; and I’d be with you, a journalist. It should be okay.”

“And the second option?”

“Jack used to frequent a salon. He invited me several times, but I never was keen on going with him. Ah! Do I miss the chap. I’d go in a heartbeat now if it meant seeing my friend. But sadly, I barely went. They are far from the Harvard club I used to go to back when I had time. They’re speaking _literature_ and _poetry_ and, well, religion and philosophy. It’s not a Jewish Salon per se, but more – Jewish & friends. Open to all invited, but enough to make me feel out of place if I go without Jack. We could talk to people there, get information.”

“And could I enter it too? I’ve never been, I’m not Jewish.”

“It shouldn’t be an issue. I have a membership, Jack made me get it; I can bring a plus one unless there’s an event.”

“Alright then.”

“So? What do you think we should do?”

**"We should pay a visit to the factory."**

**"The salon seems like the best option."**

“-our seamstresses are currently making coats,” the foreman explained, as they entered a room where two dozen women were working with black, heavy fabric. “Winter is coming, after all.”

“Do you export your goods far?” Bitty asked, while Shitty was furiously taking notes.

“Oh, yes. The whole East Coast, and even up to Los Angeles and in Canada!” Mr Weber-Kahn, the director and heir, replied. “In shops, or with catalogue orders. We truly are among the leaders in clothing in Providence. I think everyone in the city owns clothes coming straight from our factory. I recognise your jacket, with no doubt,” he added, talking about the tweed Bitty was sporting. “Nice winter apparel, from a few years back already. Definitely well-used.”

“Ah. Probably,” Bitty just said, checking his second-hand jacket with a critical look. He didn’t have eight dollars to spare for a brand-new coat, unfortunately. Then, to change the subject before also getting his pants scrutinized: “Who are your main competitors on the market right now?”

“Well, you’ve probably seen a lot of them on your way up the canal from downtown. The Zimmermann factory also bought a few of our old machines when we upgraded a few months back, so I guess they will soon start to make clothes too. But mainly, there’s a lot of factories in Pawtucket who have much more sales than us. They also have much more space. We crammed here as many seamstresses as we could,” Weber-Kahn said, overlooking all the women working, some with a baby across their chest. “But space is much more expensive in Providence, I fear.”

“Why not start in Pawtucket then, if I may ask?”

“My family made itself in Providence. My mother, Sarah Weber, is the heir of the most important jewellery of the city. Jewellery is still the main point of our company, and the jewel industry is still the first love of our beautiful city,” the director explained. “We wanted the clothing factory to be as close as possible to the jewellery.”

“Ah, I see. Now, may I ask you about those new machines you’ve got here?”

“Did anything make you alert?” Bitty asked, once he and Shitty were out of the building.

“Not really. Just boring, business talk,” Shitty sight. “I fear I fell asleep with my eyes wide open.”

“Ah- I promise you that you didn’t snore.”

“An impressive feat coming from me.”

They flagged a carriage that made its way to the city and hopped in it, not keen on walking half an hour.

“I need the notes, Shitty. I hope you took them correctly,” Bitty said.

“They’re in my personal carnet! You can’t take them!”

“Shitty! You told me you’d write down everything! I have an article to write this afternoon!”

“But-”

“Give me the notes. You’ll get the carnet back tomorrow,” Bitty said, taking the notebook out of Shitty’s hands. “Now (he checked his pocket watch) I need to go back to work as quickly as possible. I’ll never finish the article in time otherwise.”

“Yada, yada. I need to go back too, sadly. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bitty agreed.

**Go back home.**

Shitty stopped at Bitty’s this morning again for breakfast and to discuss the plan of the day – after work, they’ll go to the salon. Ah, Bitty hoped they'd find something! He was so tired of drawing blanks.

* * *

Shitty was waiting for Bitty in front of the building after work. Thankfully, Bitty had been able to wrap up his workload early that afternoon, and it was still really bright when he got out of the building, a pie box in hand.

“Good afternoon, Shitty.”

“You managed to save the goods?” his friend asked, pointing to the pie box.

“Ah, of course,” Bitty replied stiffly. “Most of my colleagues are scared of my baking, I fear. Anyway. Is it far?”

“No, ten, fifteen minutes at most? It’s near Brown, right above a bookstore – Follow, I’m leading the way…”

On their walk there, Bitty asked, curious:

“So, what should I be expecting of this salon? I’ve never been to such a place.”

“Ah, they don’t do those down South-? Where are you from, you said?”

“Madison, Georgia. And, no. There are more people living in my building now than there were in my entire town, I think. And my time in college in Atlanta was short-lived, I fear. Didn’t get to visit and discover such places.”

“Ah, I see – well, this one salon is really a fancy book club, I think. Jack would argue they have interesting discussions and debates, but I just find it boring.”

They had stopped in front of a building with a bookstore on the ground floor. Shitty opened the door right next to it, and Bitty followed him up the stairs until the third floor – where Shitty knocked on a door, adorned by a plaque reading “Friends of David - פֿרײַנד פֿון דוד”.

A butler opened the door, checked Shitty’s membership card – and let them in, taking their jackets and their hats. Bitty was impressed, to say the least. He squirmed closer to Shitty, not knowing what to do with himself. Ah, and he also felt way underdressed, once they entered the main room, where a small dozen of people (including two women) were, either sitting on sofas with books or newspapers or at the table with hot drinks, or playing billiards – all of them wore impeccable clothes, shirts and dresses. Bitty had to sew buttons back on his well-loved shirt twice last week.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Gentleladies,” Shitty greeted.

“Ooh, Shitty! It’s been a while!” one of the men playing said. “We thought you had lost the address.”

Bitty let Shitty lead them to the sofas and sit them there, and he put down the pie box on the table, not sure of what to do.

The fellow who had enthusiastically greeted them sat right across from them, next to another man who was putting away the newspaper he had been reading.

“Who is that you’ve got here with you?” the man asked.

“This is Bitty – a friend of mine, and Jack. Bitty, this is Ollie, and Wicks.”

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty corrected, “nice to meet you.”

“Haha,” Ollie laughed. “Oliver O’Meara, and this is my good friend Pacer, if you are not much into the monikers Shitty keeps giving everyone. So, Deuce, what are you doing here?”

“I am not going to lie – Bitty here and I are looking for any clue on where Jack could be. So if you had any idea, anything he had told you…”

The two men looked at each other, saddened.

“I fear we can’t be of much help,” Wicks admitted.

“But if you find the chap, please tell him to give me back my copy of Spinoza,” Ollie added.

“Someone said Zimmermann?” someone shouted. “I believe he hurt his head and he lost all his memories!”

“I miss the fellow,” someone else said. “Was always here, like clockwork, from five to eight two days a week, on this one chair. He kept the seat all warm for me.”

“Debating in the Rambam without the only guy here who actually read the Rambam and isn’t just lying about it to seem intelligent is quite boring.”

“He helped me find work! He’s a good guy.”

Everyone was starting to go on and on about Zimmermann, but Bitty lost count quickly. By the time people had switched to small-group conversation instead of shouting for everyone to hear, Bitty turned towards Shitty, and said:

“Jack seems to be missed by a lot of people.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s an ornery man, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Or, maybe a few, but not more than average, I swear.”

“Isn’t he from Montreal? That’s what I read – that his family was still mostly doing business up there. When did he arrive here in Providence, knowing so many people?”

“Ah. Well – he went to Harvard for college, actually,” Shitty explained. “That’s where we met, and where we became best friends. He liked it here, discovered New England; he went back to Montreal after graduating, but he often came here to visit. The guy managed to smell how the textile industry would be exploding in Providence, and how it could be an incredible opportunity to invest in. He convinced Bob to try, and they bought the factory.”

“But the Zimmermann are still doing business in Montreal, right? They’re a jeweller family?”

“One of Jack’s uncles took the reins of the jewellery while Alicia, Bob and Jack came here to kickstart the factory. Actually, as things were doing good Bob and Alicia were talking about going back to Montreal soon. Jack would probably have continued to hop in between the cities until he got married…”

“So, until the end of his days,” Ollie interjected.

“Oh, stop that! Jack could have had all the success with the ladies, if only he had the time!” Shitty defended.

“Maybe, but he didn’t have the time. Because he was busy spending three hours here to keep the seat all warm for Eli’s bottom.”

Bitty laughed at that, and Shitty threw him a pointed look.

“Don’t mock the guy, Bitty! He truly could have so much success with the ladies, I tell you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Well, when you find him, you could give him a tip or two. With your pie-making skills and your nice attitude, I’m sure _you_ are highly successful with the ladies.”

“Ha. Haha.” Bitty just replied. “Yes. The ladies.”

“Let the guy alone, Shitty,” Wicks said, his eyes on Bitty as if he _knew_. “But tell me, you’re the one who made this pie?”

While Bitty and Shitty were talking, Ollie and Wicks had opened the pie box and they now each had a slice on their lap, half-eaten.

“Ah, yes.”

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” Ollie groaned. “Please, come again.”

“I won’t have much time, I reckon.”

“Mmh, I understand. But that’s quite an accent you’ve got there. We’re are you from, Eric?”

“Ah- Georgia. I arrived not long ago.”

Wicks just nodded.

“The South. What made you come all the way up here?”

“I- don’t really want to talk about it. Or know how to, anyway,” Bitty admitted.

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss the South. A shame Southerners made me leave.”

Bitty and Shitty bid their adieux an hour later. Shitty talked some more with everyone, especially Jack’s closest friends, while Bitty got roped into a poetry writing and reading circle at a table. He didn’t understand what people were talking about around him – about politics, about Pinsker’s pamphlet, about stories from their families still in Europe, about religion, about money, about furniture to buy for an apartment too big, about more books that Bitty could phantom having the time to read one day – but Bitty was barely listening. He was focused on the poem he was writing, and that he didn’t want to share.

They still had no clues of where Jack could be. But in a way, Bitty felt closer to this man he had never met.

Bitty and Shitty parted ways downtown until the morning, and once home, Bitty put in his nightstand the neatly folded poem about his longing for a home that didn’t want him.

**Following morning.**

Shitty was waiting for Bitty in front of the building after work. Thankfully, Bitty had been able to wrap up his workload early that afternoon, and it was still really bright when he got out of the building, a pie box in hand.

“Good afternoon, Shitty.”

“You managed to save the goods?” his friend asked, pointing to the pie box.

“Ah, of course,” Bitty replied stiffly. “Most of my colleagues are scared of my baking, I fear. Anyway. Is it far?”

“No, ten, fifteen minutes at most? It’s near Brown, right above a bookstore – Follow, I’m leading the way…”

On their walk there, Bitty asked, curious:

“So, what should I be expecting of this salon? I’ve never been to such a place.”

“Ah, they don’t do those down South-? Where are you from, you said?”

“Madison, Georgia. And, no. There are more people living in my building now than there were in my entire town, I think. And my time in college in Atlanta was short-lived, I fear. Didn’t get to visit and discover such places.”

“Ah, I see – well, this one salon is really a fancy book club, I think. Jack would argue they have interesting discussions and debates, but I just find it boring.”

They had stopped in front of a building with a bookstore on the ground floor. Shitty opened the door right next to it, and Bitty followed him up the stairs until the third floor – where Shitty knocked on a door, adorned by a plaque reading “Friends of David - פֿרײַנד פֿון דוד”.

A butler opened the door, checked Shitty’s membership card – and let them in, taking their jackets and their hats. Bitty was impressed, to say the least. He squirmed closer to Shitty, not knowing what to do with himself. Ah, and he also felt way underdressed, once they entered the main room, where a small dozen of people (including two women) were, either sitting on sofas with books or newspapers or at the table with hot drinks, or playing billiards – all of them wore impeccable clothes, shirts and dresses. Bitty had to sew buttons back on his well-loved shirt twice last week.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Gentleladies,” Shitty greeted.

“Ooh, Shitty! It’s been a while!” one of the men playing said. “We thought you had lost the address.”

Bitty let Shitty lead them to the sofas and sit them there, and he put down the pie box on the table, not sure of what to do.

The fellow who had enthusiastically greeted them sat right across from them, next to another man who was putting away the newspaper he had been reading.

“Who is that you’ve got here with you?” the man asked.

“This is Bitty – a friend of mine, and Jack. Bitty, this is Ollie, and Wicks.”

“Eric Bittle,” Bitty corrected, “nice to meet you.”

“Haha,” Ollie laughed. “Oliver O’Meara, and this is my good friend Pacer, if you are not much into the monikers Shitty keeps giving everyone. So, Deuce, what are you doing here?”

“I am not going to lie – Bitty here and I are looking for any clue on where Jack could be. So if you had any idea, anything he had told you…”

The two men looked at each other, saddened.

“I fear we can’t be of much help,” Wicks admitted.

“But if you find the chap, please tell him to give me back my copy of Spinoza,” Ollie added.

“Someone said Zimmermann?” someone shouted. “I believe he hurt his head and he lost all his memories!”

“I miss the fellow,” someone else said. “Was always here, like clockwork, from five to eight two days a week, on this one chair. He kept the seat all warm for me.”

“Debating in the Rambam without the only guy here who actually read the Rambam and isn’t just lying about it to seem intelligent is quite boring.”

“He helped me find work! He’s a good guy.”

Everyone was starting to go on and on about Zimmermann, but Bitty lost count quickly. By the time people had switched to small-group conversation instead of shouting for everyone to hear, Bitty turned towards Shitty, and said:

“Jack seems to be missed by a lot of people.”

“Ah, yes. Well, he’s an ornery man, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Or, maybe a few, but not more than average, I swear.”

“Isn’t he from Montreal? That’s what I read – that his family was still mostly doing business up there. When did he arrive here in Providence, knowing so many people?”

“Ah. Well – he went to Harvard for college, actually,” Shitty explained. “That’s where we met, and where we became best friends. He liked it here, discovered New England; he went back to Montreal after graduating, but he often came here to visit. The guy managed to smell how the textile industry would be exploding in Providence, and how it could be an incredible opportunity to invest in. He convinced Bob to try, and they bought the factory.”

“But the Zimmermann are still doing business in Montreal, right? They’re a jeweller family?”

“One of Jack’s uncles took the reins of the jewellery while Alicia, Bob and Jack came here to kickstart the factory. Actually, as things were doing good Bob and Alicia were talking about going back to Montreal soon. Jack would probably have continued to hop in between the cities until he got married…”

“So, until the end of his days,” Ollie interjected.

“Oh, stop that! Jack could have had all the success with the ladies, if only he had the time!” Shitty defended.

“Maybe, but he didn’t have the time. Because he was busy spending three hours here to keep the seat all warm for Eli’s bottom.”

Bitty laughed at that, and Shitty threw him a pointed look.

“Don’t mock the guy, Bitty! He truly could have so much success with the ladies, I tell you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Well, when you find him, you could give him a tip or two. With your pie-making skills and your nice attitude, I’m sure _you_ are highly successful with the ladies.”

“Ha. Haha.” Bitty just replied. “Yes. The ladies.”

“Let the guy alone, Shitty,” Wicks said, his eyes on Bitty as if he _knew_. “But tell me, you’re the one who made this pie?”

While Bitty and Shitty were talking, Ollie and Wicks had opened the pie box and they now each had a slice on their lap, half-eaten.

“Ah, yes.”

“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” Ollie groaned. “Please, come again.”

“I won’t have much time, I reckon.”

“Mmh, I understand. But that’s quite an accent you’ve got there. We’re are you from, Eric?”

“Ah- Georgia. I arrived not long ago.”

Wicks just nodded.

“The South. What made you come all the way up here?”

“I- don’t really want to talk about it. Or know how to, anyway,” Bitty admitted.

“Do you miss it?”

“I miss the South. A shame Southerners made me leave.”

Bitty and Shitty bid their adieux an hour later. Shitty talked some more with everyone, especially Jack’s closest friends, while Bitty got roped into a poetry writing and reading circle at a table. He didn’t understand what people were talking about around him – about politics, about Pinsker’s pamphlet, about stories from their families still in Europe, about religion, about money, about furniture to buy for an apartment too big, about more books that Bitty could phantom having the time to read one day – but Bitty was barely listening. He was focused on the poem he was writing, and that he didn’t want to share.

They still had no clues of where Jack could be. But in a way, Bitty felt closer to this man he had never met.

Bitty and Shitty parted ways downtown until the morning, and once home, Bitty put in his nightstand the neatly folded poem about his longing for a home that didn’t want him.

**Go back home.**

Shitty stopped at Bitty’s this morning again for breakfast and to discuss the plan of the day – Bitty would ask to visit the Weber-Kahn factory for an article, and Shitty would join him as his “assistant”. Ah, Bitty hoped they'd find something! He was so tired of drawing blanks.

* * *

“-our seamstresses are currently making coats,” the foreman explained, as they entered a room where two dozen women were working with black, heavy fabric. “Winter is coming, after all.”

“Do you export your goods far?” Bitty asked, while Shitty was furiously taking notes.

“Oh, yes. The whole East Coast, and even up to Los Angeles and in Canada!” Mr Weber-Kahn, the director and heir, replied. “In shops, or with catalogue orders. We truly are among the leaders in clothing in Providence. I think everyone in the city owns clothes coming straight from our factory. I recognise your jacket, with no doubt,” he added, talking about the tweed Bitty was sporting. “Nice winter apparel, from a few years back already. Definitely well-used.”

“Ah. Probably,” Bitty just said, checking his second-hand jacket with a critical look. He didn’t have eight dollars to spare for a brand-new coat, unfortunately. Then, to change the subject before also getting his pants scrutinized: “Who are your main competitors on the market right now?”

“Well, you’ve probably seen a lot of them on your way up the canal from downtown. The Zimmermann factory also bought a few of our old machines when we upgraded a few months back, so I guess they will soon start to make clothes too. But mainly, there’s a lot of factories in Pawtucket who have much more sales than us. They also have much more space. We crammed here as many seamstresses as we could,” Weber-Kahn said, overlooking all the women working, some with a baby across their chest. “But space is much more expensive in Providence, I fear.”

“Why not start in Pawtucket then, if I may ask?”

“My family made itself in Providence. My mother, Sarah Weber, is the heir of the most important jewellery of the city. Jewellery is still the main point of our company, and the jewel industry is still the first love of our beautiful city,” the director explained. “We wanted the clothing factory to be as close as possible to the jewellery.”

“Ah, I see. Now, may I ask you about those new machines you’ve got here?”

“Did anything make you alert?” Bitty asked, once he and Shitty were out of the building.

“Not really. Just boring, business talk,” Shitty sight. “I fear I fell asleep with my eyes wide open.”

“Ah- I promise you that you didn’t snore.”

“An impressive feat coming from me.”

They flagged a carriage that made its way to the city and hopped in it, not keen on walking half an hour.

“I need the notes, Shitty. I hope you took them correctly,” Bitty said.

“They’re in my personal carnet! You can’t take them!”

“Shitty! You told me you’d write down everything! I have an article to write this afternoon!”

“But-”

“Give me the notes. You’ll get the carnet back tomorrow,” Bitty said, taking the notebook out of Shitty’s hands. “Now (he checked his pocket watch) I need to go back to work as quickly as possible. I’ll never finish the article in time otherwise.”

“Yada, yada. I need to go back too, sadly. See you tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bitty agreed.

**Following morning.**

Bitty was exhausted, and it was only Wednesday morning.

Ah! Did he long for sleep! But the adventures those past days left him quite unrested, to say the least. He put more coffee than usual in his pot this morning; he could be needing it, and Shitty also probably.

While he was flipping some pancakes for his shared breakfast with Shitty, his friend knocked on the door, twice. Bitty went immediately to open it –

And standing right there, was his neighbor, Mister Jacob. He seemed to have just woken up, with his beard and dark curly hair still a mess and his eyes tired. Or maybe his eyes had always been tired? The man seemed to be in a state close to panic, his eyes jumping around everywhere but on Bitty’s face.

“Ah. May I help you, my dear?” Bitty asked.

“I. May I enter?”

It probably was a bad idea, but Bitty was the king of bad ideas lately. He took a step back to let the man enter, and he served him a cup of coffee.

He never really got to talk with him; they moved into the building around the same time, Mister Jacob two floors above him, he always went to the market really early in the mornings and he was a little bit older than Bitty, but besides that? Bitty didn’t know much.

“Pancakes?” Bitty asked, as he went back to cooking.

“… Yes, please?” the man questioned more than replied.

“They’re ready in one minute. Now tell me, why are you here? I’m not against social visits, but barely past six in the morning…”

“I… I saw a man coming and going out of your apartment every morning,” Mister Jacob said instead.

Bitty dropped his spatula.

He didn’t like this tone. He didn’t like the implications of this accusation.

He left his home because it was too hard to be an invert there, and he didn’t want to marry. It wasn’t two months that he was in a city – and someone had already seen through him? With extrapolations, of course, because Shitty was nothing but a friend; but the fact was, how could Bitty defend himself? What was he risking? What if-

“What was he doing here?”

Bitty gulped down. He needed to say something, that didn’t sound like a clumsy excuse to not end up in prison-

Some more knocks at the door, that opened right away – this time, on Shitty, who didn’t seem to care it wasn’t his home.

“Good morrow Bitty, and- (he noticed the man) And. Oh my God.”

Mister Jacob turned towards Shitty, and Bitty felt his heart stop.

“Jack?”

“Hello, Shits.”

Hm.

What?

Bitty clung on his spatula as he saw Shitty run to Mister Jacob and jump on his lap to hug him and cry. Jack was crying too, keeping his friend close.

“This beard is awful, my friend, you need to get rid of it like yesterday!”

“Shut it, or I’m going to think I didn’t miss you so much…”

_What_?

“Is this a jest.”

“Bits! This is Jack!”

“This is my neighbor,” Bitty said. “We spent the last ten days running in the entire city to look for him- and he was my neighbor. I refuse to believe this.”

“But he’s right here!”

“I just said I refuse.”

“You were looking for me?” Jack asked, throwing a weird look at Bitty. “I mean, I do not doubt Shitty- But we never met, have we…?”

“Well, the whole adventure would have made a great article to write and a good deed done. But now, I do not know about the deed, but I doubt the article would be really interesting.”

“Eh. Sorry. We can do as if I never came this morning and you’re still looking, if you want to.”

“Don’t joke, Jackie,” Shitty said, between two sobs. “You’re not leaving my line of sight ever again. Your _mom_ won’t let you out of the apartment anyway.”

Bitty put the pancakes on a plate and put them on the small table, and he sat on the bed to eat because Shitty and Jack had taken the two chairs he owned.

“So, Jack… What happened?” Shitty asked, finally, as he was filling his pipe (how could he smoke so early, Bitty didn’t understand).

“I…”

Jack took a deep breath, and he explained, carefully weighing each word:

“I’m hiding, That is what is safer for me. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you, my friend, but I didn’t want to risk the letter being intercepted. But I saw you those past days, coming here when I was coming back from the market, and… I wanted to see you again.”

“Yes, but why?” Bitty probed. “Why are you hiding?”

“I… There was this incident. Someone broke into our home, shot my father. Someone from the local mob, doubtlessly – the way my father was handling his business here probably didn’t please them much. The man tried to shoot me too, but I managed to run away through the roofs. I hid for a while at an inn, until I managed to sneak into the factory after a night or two to collect some money and plans for the business I don’t want in anyone’s hands, and then I got this apartment. I have all the mob after me, so I’ve been staying here for a while, and plan to stay on the downlow for some time more, until I’ve been forgotten and it’s safe to go out again.”

“Oh, wow,” Shitty sighed. “But when will it be? If you’ve got a whole bunch of guys after you, it could just as well be never…”

“Then I’ll have to leave, I fear.”

“Oh, boy.”

**"I understand..."**

**"Wait wait wait wait here, Mister Zimmermann."**

Bitty was exhausted, and it was only Wednesday morning.

Ah! Did he long for sleep! But the adventures those past days left him quite unrested, to say the least. He put more coffee than usual in his pot this morning; he could be needing it, and Shitty also probably.

While he was flipping some pancakes for his shared breakfast with Shitty, his friend knocked on the door, twice. Bitty went immediately to open it –

And standing right there, was his neighbor, Mister Jacob. He seemed to have just woken up, with his beard and dark curly hair still a mess and his eyes tired. Or maybe his eyes had always been tired? The man seemed to be in a state close to panic, his eyes jumping around everywhere but on Bitty’s face.

“Ah. May I help you, my dear?” Bitty asked.

“I. May I enter?”

It probably was a bad idea, but Bitty was the king of bad ideas lately. He took a step back to let the man enter, and he served him a cup of coffee.

He never really got to talk with him; they moved into the building around the same time, Mister Jacob two floors above him, he always went to the market really early in the mornings and he was a little bit older than Bitty, but besides that? Bitty didn’t know much.

“Pancakes?” Bitty asked, as he went back to cooking.

“… Yes, please?” the man questioned more than replied.

“They’re ready in one minute. Now tell me, why are you here? I’m not against social visits, but barely past six in the morning…”

“I… I saw a man coming and going out of your apartment every morning,” Mister Jacob said instead.

Bitty dropped his spatula.

He didn’t like this tone. He didn’t like the implications of this accusation.

He left his home because it was too hard to be an invert there, and he didn’t want to marry. It wasn’t two months that he was in a city – and someone had already seen through him? With extrapolations, of course, because Shitty was nothing but a friend; but the fact was, how could Bitty defend himself? What was he risking? What if-

“What was he doing here?”

Bitty gulped down. He needed to say something, that didn’t sound like a clumsy excuse to not end up in prison-

Some more knocks at the door, that opened right away – this time, on Shitty, who didn’t seem to care it wasn’t his home.

“Good morrow Bitty, and- (he noticed the man) And. Oh my God.”

Mister Jacob turned towards Shitty, and Bitty felt his heart stop.

“Jack?”

“Hello, Shits.”

Hm.

What?

Bitty clung on his spatula as he saw Shitty run to Mister Jacob and jump on his lap to hug him and cry. Jack was crying too, keeping his friend close.

“This beard is awful, my friend, you need to get rid of it like yesterday!”

“Shut it, or I’m going to think I didn’t miss you so much…”

_What_?

“Is this a jest.”

“Bits! This is Jack!”

“This is my neighbor,” Bitty said. “We spent the last ten days running in the entire city to look for him- and he was my neighbor. I refuse to believe this.”

“But he’s right here!”

“I just said I refuse.”

“You were looking for me?” Jack asked, throwing a weird look at Bitty. “I mean, I do not doubt Shitty- But we never met, have we…?”

“Well, the whole adventure would have made a great article to write and a good deed done. But now, I do not know about the deed, but I doubt the article would be really interesting.”

“Eh. Sorry. We can do as if I never came this morning and you’re still looking, if you want to.”

“Don’t joke, Jackie,” Shitty said, between two sobs. “You’re not leaving my line of sight ever again. Your _mom_ won’t let you out of the apartment anyway.”

Bitty put the pancakes on a plate and put them on the small table, and he sat on the bed to eat because Shitty and Jack had taken the two chairs he owned.

“So, Jack… What happened?” Shitty asked, finally, as he was filling his pipe (how could he smoke so early, Bitty didn’t understand).

“I…”

Jack took a deep breath, and he explained, carefully weighing each word:

“I’m hiding, That is what is safer for me. I’m sorry I didn’t contact you, my friend, but I didn’t want to risk the letter being intercepted. But I saw you those past days, coming here when I was coming back from the market, and… I wanted to see you again.”

“Yes, but why?” Bitty probed. “Why are you hiding?”

“I… There was this incident. Someone broke into our home, shot my father. Someone from the local mob, doubtlessly – the way my father was handling his business here probably didn’t please them much. The man tried to shoot me too, but I managed to run away through the roofs. I hid for a while at an inn, until I managed to sneak into the factory after a night or two to collect some money and plans for the business I don’t want in anyone’s hands, and then I got this apartment. I have all the mob after me, so I’ve been staying here for a while, and plan to stay on the downlow for some time more, until I’ve been forgotten and it’s safe to go out again.”

“Oh, wow,” Shitty sighed. “But when will it be? If you’ve got a whole bunch of guys after you, it could just as well be never…”

“Then I’ll have to leave, I fear.”

“Oh, boy.”

**"I understand..."**

**"Wait wait wait wait here, Mister Zimmermann."**

“It’s. I feel like I’m missing somethin’.”

“Maybe?” Jack said. “It’s early in the morning, English is my third language, my whole life is a mess, I lost so much weight. My argumentation isn’t the clearest, I fear.”

**"I understand..."**

“I see.”

“It’s. Complicated. It hasn’t been the easiest weeks of my life.”

“It can’t be safe to stay here,” Bitty said, shaking his head. “You need to leave, move farther away.”

“Probably. But I can’t leave my parents here. My father is in the hospital, my mother is still here. I can’t leave them.”

Shitty and Bitty exchanged a long look.

“Listen, Jack. We can help you and Alicia,” Shitty said. “It’s not very safe for her here either. If they’re after you still, they’ll probably be after her too once she starts to go out more often.”

“But, my father…”

“The priority is you and your mother, alright? Don’t worry. We’re going to help.”

“I can’t just _leave_ when it’s dangerous for me…”

“Your ancestors did,” Shitty cut him off, “that’s why you’re here today. What matters is for you to be safe, even if it’s far.”

**"We'll help you."**

Ransom and Holster, the bodyguards, were staying back to send all of the Zimmermann’s belongings, and then to help with Robert’s repatriation. 

Alicia had been more than happy to learn that her son was still alive. She had already taken a train back home, after a long discussion with Shitty on the situation, while Jack was still staying on the downlow until he was back to Canada.

“What are you going to say? When people will ask where you were?” Bitty asked him, the night before his departure.

“I’ll find something. I don’t worry about that,” Jack replied. “Ah, maybe if I look mysterious enough, a lack of answer will be enough for them.”

“You never look mysterious, you look like a lost kid,” Shitty argued.

A few days later, Bitty was glad to know that Jack made it safely home. He even had to write an article when Jack publicly reappeared in Canada, relaying the lie Jack told, that he left in a retreat to treat his injuries. 

After that, he only contacted Jack again to offer his sincere condolences when he learnt that Bob passed before being able to be repatriated home. Jack sent a thank you, and that was it.

Bitty didn’t know what to think about this whole thing.

**Try again...**

“Something isn’t adding up, Jack,” Bitty said.

“Eh? And what, if I may?” Jack asked, tense.

**"Bob has been shot?"**

**"Why didn’t you go to the police?"**

**"Providence’s mob?"**

**"Why are you still in Providence?"**

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

Jack’s shoulders relaxed.

“What do you want them to do? It’s the mob. They’re so many men – even if the police managed to take one down, there would just be two much angrier men to take his place. The last thing I need is to make them any more angry at my family.”

**"I understand..."**

“Why are you still in Providence?”

“My parents are here,” Jack replied immediately. “I can’t see my father at the hospital, I can’t see my mother because I fear I’d be recognised in our neighborhood – there’s already rumours when I’m at the other side of the city. I cannot leave them behind.”

**"I understand..."**

“Bob has been shot?”

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. “In the shoulder.”

“Why doesn’t he have any bullet injury, then?”

Jack shut his mouth immediately.

“Oh. Yes,” Shitty confirmed. “Now that you say it- I went back this Sunday to visit him at the hospital, and he’s still in a coma. He doesn’t have any scar, any injury – he hasn’t been shot.”

Jack looked at them, panicked and breathing hard –

And he broke into sobs.

**Oh oh.**

“Providence’s mob, uh honey?”

“Mmhmmh.”

“What mob.”

“I-”

Jack was hesitant, clearly looking for a lie to tell. Oh, no, no, Bitty didn’t have the patience for that this morning.

“There’s no mob in Providence,” Bitty prodded.

“Yes, there is. They’re new…”

“Jack. Cut it.”

Jack looked at them, panicked and breathing hard –

And he broke into sobs.

**Oh oh.**

Bitty wasn’t sure of what to do with a crying interlocutor, so he let Shitty scoot his chair close to Jack’s to be able to hug him and try to calm him down, and Bitty did what he did best – he prepared some more food and filled an entire plate with biscuits and was actually about to start a pie dough when Jack seemed like he had calmed down a bit.

“I can’t say…” Jack just managed to articulate.

“My friend, you can tell us everything,” Shitty promised.

“You’re going to think I’m out of my head…”

“Jack,” Bitty said, kneeling next to him and putting his hand on his. “Please do tell. We want to help.”

“But…”

“We promise, Jack. We can handle anything you tell us.”

Jack sniffed, and nodded slowly. He caught his breath, and he said, in a low voice:

“It’s… It’s totally loony,” Jack admitted.

“Jack, hun.”

“He… It was. A wizard. Or a something. He didn’t see me, and he struck my dad, and then he realised I was here and saw everything – and he told me he couldn’t leave me alive. So I ran away. And I have no idea of what to do. I didn’t even know magic was a thing, and even after seeing him attacking my father – I have doubts that it actually happened.”

“Oooh, damnation,” Shitty sighed, sitting back into his chair. “We dabbled enough with magic already!”

“What?” Jack asked. “You’re not more surprised than that?”

“When looking for you, we met a witch… And frogs, who are men. It’s complicated,” Bitty said.

Jack wiped his last tears with his sleeve. He was still trembling a little, but he seemed much more stable than before.

“I can’t believe it. You already know of magic, I didn’t hallucinate.”

“You didn’t, indeed,” Bitty said. “Don’t worry.”

“Jack. You can’t stay hidden all your life, right? The witch can help us, I know.”

“Why would she?” Jack asked. “What if she’s with him?”

“She’s been promised money -mmh, maybe your parents’ money- if she found you,” Shitty explained. “You found us, so we can promise her money for helping you with this aggressor instead, right?”

“She’s not so bad, for a witch,” Bitty conceded. “Not that I know much about other witches – but she’s not bad, for a human, at least.”

“And she is incredibly skilled, and assertive, and charming,” Shitty pointed out with a small smile.

“ _Charming_? What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China, Shitty?”

Shitty just totally ignored Bitty.

“Jack. I’m certain she’s the solution to all your problems.”

“Maybe we could meet with her,” Jack accepted, with a small voice. “What do I have to lose, eh?”

“Let us meet here tonight after work,” Shitty said. “And then we’re going to see her. I’m going to send her a telegram to warn her- meanwhile, Jack, you just stay at home as usual, alright?”

“Alright. Let’s do that.”

  
“Found. New issue. Need help tonight.”

“Nine.”

Bitty had never sent as many telegrams as he did the past week, he thought, as he was waiting at the post office to send Jack and Shitty a confirmation of the hour Lardo gave him. Thank God his job was in a newspaper, because he wouldn’t be able to sneak out of the office every five minutes or explain all the messenger boys who stopped by otherwise.

Honestly, the whole situation was a mess. Five days ago, he didn’t even know magic was a thing, and now here he was, asking for an appointment with a witch – ah, it’s not like he’d live such wacky adventures in Madison.

He sent a small telegram to his parents too, for good measure.

Shitty was meeting with a client in the afternoon, so he told Bitty and Jack he’d meet with them directly at Lardo’s – Bitty himself had a pile of work that he needed to deal with, so he only met with Jack on Dyer Street well past dinner time.

“Good evening, Mister Jacob!” Bitty said, catching up with Jack, who was standing near a shoemaker shop.

“Good evening.”

“Sorry for the lateness, but you know… Work.”

“Actually, I fortunately didn’t know a thing about work the past month,” Jack joked.

“Oh goodness, Shitty forgot to warn me that you’re a jester.”

“I must be, if I am friends with someone who baptised himself Shitty.”

“I should have guessed… Well, let’s go on our merry way,” Bitty said, and then, in a hushed tone: “Won’t you be recognised?”

Jack shrugged.

“With this beard, this longer hair, these second-hand clothes? Maybe someone could think they saw me and start a rumour, but I think I’m relatively safe. A man who was looking for me saw me every morning for more than a month, and he never recognised me, I heard.”

“Stop this instant,” Bitty playfully threatened, swatting Jack’s arm.

The stroll down Dyer Street as the sun set was pleasant; thankfully, they were still downtown, so Bitty managed to convince Jack to stop at a food stand to grab a quick dinner.

“You’re all skin and bones. You need to eat!”

“Eh, stress made me lose my appetite,” Jack admitted.

“Here, an oyster stand. Do you like oysters?”

“I’m Jewish. I can’t eat oysters. But…” Jack pointed a stand farther away. “Knishes. I want knishes.”

They bought a big bag of various knishes, that Jack could probably have devoured whole while walking. Bitty had never tasted them before, but he had to admit they were quite good – Jack then started to tell him all about the ones his bubbe used to make, back in Montreal; of course, it started a conversation about the baked goods Bitty’s own grandma used to feed him.

When they finally arrived at Lardo’s, their stomachs were full, their hands greasy, and Jack was laughing while Bitty was trying to wipe his hands on Jack’s shirt.

“Thank you,” Jack said on the stairs. “I don’t think I had fun once in the last weeks.”

Shitty was already at Lardo’s, reading a book in her armchair while smoking his pipe when Bitty and Jack arrived. You could see more clearly today; she had bought some oil lamps to fix on her walls, and the curtains weren’t drawn. Lardo herself was working on a canvas that she put away when Bitty and Jack entered.

“Good evening. Lardo, this is Jack Zimmermann, Jack, this is Lardo.”

“Good evening,” Lardo replied, cleaning her brushes.

“You’re a painter?” Jack asked. “I’ve been told you’re a witch.”

“Well, spells don’t put much food on the table. Well, neither does my art, to be honest. Anyway; Shitty here already told me all about the situation. So. Zimmermann was right below your nose and you didn’t notice?”

“For his defence, I don’t look much like myself anymore,” Jack pointed out, passing his hand in his beard.

“You should keep it,” Shitty said. “It makes you look wise.”

“It makes me look like I ran away from a shtetl and I just got off the boat.”

Lardo shook her head at that, a bit exasperated.

“Can you keep the pleasantries and the mockeries for later? I’d like to deal with this all before the Frogs arrive. Zimmermann, if I help you, will I be promised money?”

“I- if it’s what you want, then yes,” Jack replied.

“Not that much what I _want_ , but it is what I need. Anyway. We need a plan of action.”

“We need to stop the guy after Jack-” Shitty started.

“-and to heal my father. He’s been struck by magic, has Shitty told you? You can help him, right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I’m not a great healer. But there must be - there has to be – some book, or someone, out there, who could help your father.”

“But how to proceed?” Bitty asked. “How does one find a magic user on the loose?”

Shitty took out of his breast pocket his notebook, and opened it on two blank pages, a pen in hand.

“We should check the Zimmermann’s apartment. There must be clues, somewhere, on why the guy was after Bob.”

“We could also go check the magic community to look for books on how to heal Mister Zimmermann,” Lardo said. “We probably won’t find anything in Providence, but back in Boston there are much more people and shops. A small trip there could be a great help. I’ve been meaning to go to look for something to help the Frogs, but even if I found a book I couldn’t afford it.”

“Alright. I don’t think we need all four of us for those two things, so- we should separate. Bitty, could you take tomorrow off work?”

“Not at all. But I could try to get off work by five.”

“I’ll try too, then. So, where do you want to go? With Jack, or with Lardo?”

**"I’m going with Jack at the Zimmermann’s apartment."**

**"I’d like to join Lardo in Boston. "**

Alicia didn’t say a word when hugging Jack, in the doorway of their fancy apartment near the City Hall.

They stayed there, in an embrace, for a while, before Jack led his mother back inside so he could lock the door behind them.

“The office is at the end of the hallway, Bittle. Could you…” Jack started, while still having an arm around his mother’s shoulders.

“Of course.”

Bitty left Jack and his mother alone so they could catch up some, and tried to find his way in the apartment. It was bigger than any place Bitty had ever seen, and way fancier – the furniture was elegant and impeccable, there were mirrors and photographs and paintings on the wall, a heavy Persian rug all along the corridor.

On his way to the office, Bitty couldn’t help but take a look at the kitchen – ah, that’s it, now he was jealous. Oh, he wished he could bake something in there! But now wasn’t the time. Thursday was Ransom and Holster’s free evening. At least, it had been pre-incident, and Shitty had confirmed he had met up with them once or twice on those evenings since. They would still be back around midnight probably, but Jack would rather not have to see them.

The office was a small, dark room. Bitty lit all the lamps he found, and he started to search.

Any interesting clue would probably be locked up and thus, Bitty wouldn’t be able to do much, but he probably could still find a thing or two.

The room was, once again, elegantly arranged, but now that Bitty could take a better look, well… He realised it didn’t seem like home. There were barely any personal effects, except for a portrait of Robert, Alicia, and a slightly younger Jack above the mantle place – and a picture of Alicia, in one of her stage outfits, framed on the desk. They weren’t in Providence to stay, after all. It was just supposed to be a short detour for Robert and Alicia.

Bitty felt quite uncomfortable going through Robert’s letters and telegrams laying on the desk, but it was for a good cause – surely, if it meant helping his son, Robert wouldn’t mind someone reading his letters, would he?

Jack joined him in silence half an hour later. Bitty was going through all the drawers that weren’t locked, even looking for false-bottoms, but he hadn’t found anything.

Jack took a key out of his pocket and he opened the drawers and the safe, that he began to search himself. Bitty started to go through the drawers – which were full of correspondence. Bitty didn’t want to spend the night dissecting those hundred of letters, really. So, in despair, he searched if there was anything more interesting – some shiny rings and earrings were thrown in there, as well as club and salon membership cards.

“Did you also work in this room?” Bitty asked Jack.

“No, I did my work in my bedroom or at the factory office. My father doesn’t like to share his space.”

Alicia entered the room too, and silently, she started to read all documents related to the factory, and to put them on the floor, organising them by theme and by date.

It’s only after fifteen minutes that Jack found something.

There was, behind a painting, a safe whose key had been hidden at the top of a cabinet.

And behind the money, gold, and jewellery in there, Jack found prints. Prints and designs of pieces of clothing, along with some long letters.

The designs seemed perfectly normal at first sight; but the letters-

“Oh, no,” Jack said, reading. “What a moron.”

“What has he done, this time?” Alicia asked.

“He’s dealing with… The wrong crowd. I’m sorry mother, but I cannot be more precise than this,” he explained, hastily showing the letters and designs in his bag. “Bittle, I think we have everything we need.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. Let’s go back-”

“You’re going to leave again?”

Alicia's voice had been strong, yet, hesitant. Bitty couldn’t even start to understand what she must be feeling right now, to be honest. She just learnt one hour ago that her son was still alive, and she got to hug him, just to have him go right after, without any idea of what was happening!

“Mother…”

“I am going to wait for you downstairs,” Bitty quickly said, getting up from the floor.

“Wait.”

Bitty turned towards Alicia, who was walking to him. She looked him up and down, and she hugged him.

“You take care of Jacob for me, will you?”

“I- Yes, ma’am.”

Jack joined Bitty in the street not even ten minutes after he left – he barely had the time to light a cigarette.

“On our way?”

“On our way.

They didn’t talk on the way there. Jack was clutching his bag for dear life, Bitty was trying to review everything that just happened.

What did Robert Zimmermann do?

They climbed the stairs towards their apartments, but Jack stopped in front of Bitty’s instead of continuing to the fifth floor to his own place.

“Can I…?”

“Yes, yes.”

At least, once at home Bitty had something to do with himself. He prepared some tea and put the scone tin on the table for them to share. Jack was visibly grateful to be fussed over like that, which was rare enough to be noted.

“So. Your father,” Bitty said, sitting at the table with two mugs of tea.

“He’s an idiot, and he should never have been given any amount of money. He has four brothers and two sisters and none of them would have done something as stupid as that.”

“What did he do?”

“It’s…” Jack started, taking the letters out of his pocket. “He was dealing with magicians? Selling clothes to them. Apparently, according to this letter – magical clothes need to be treated with spells to be resistant to magic, but it’s impractical – and he was grossly paid to try to put the magic within the fabric somewhere during the production. His correspondent here, “M. L.” was the one overseeing the fabric-making, telling him if things were good enough or not.”

“Oh, boy.”

“So, I guess that’s why he purchased some good industrial sewing machines that he barely ever used – I never get why he kept them in a separate room of the factory, but… Apparently he sometimes had people work on clothes during overtime. He’d have produced twenty, thirty pieces at most in a few months, because the fabric-making was a lot of trial and error… But look. This is the last letter.”

“Oh man, the guy seems angry.”

“My father wanted out, because it was becoming too expensive, and the ladies working overtime started to ask questions on where the jackets and shirts were going if we still didn’t sell clothes…”

“And without the incentive of money, the guy probably felt like your father could just report him to the authorities and he’d be executed. So he tried to make sure he’d stay silent.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, goodness. Who deals with sorcerers and thinks you can just say ‘I want out’? Lardo made sure that we knew she had the ability to kill us, at any moment.”

“My father loves to take risks. He almost tanked the company when he first inherited it, my uncle had had to physically fight with him I heard. But he’s great with people and well-liked in all of Montreal, so he still stayed the director.”

Bitty chuckled at that.

“Ah! Why are fathers like that?”

“I do not know! My father’s family had to run away from Europe when he was ten, you’d think he’d be protective and careful in business, but not at all. He didn’t even want to start in the fabric industry in Providence at first, I had to convince him; because yes, Montreal was great and the business we have here works well, but what would we do the day they say they don’t want Jews anymore? I don’t wish it, because I fiercely love Montreal, but it could happen. Look at what’s happening in Europe right now.”

“I see… What do you like so much about Montreal?”

“Oh! You should see it in winter! Under the snow, with the frozen lake near our house…” Jack replied, with a soft smile and nostalgic eyes, full of longing and of spleen.

“We had lakes too… I miss them. They were my favorite place to go to in summer.”

“Where are you from, exactly?”

“A small town in Georgia. The place was idyllic, truly… I was working as a cook at the inn there. It wasn’t great pay, because there weren’t many customers, but I was still living with my parents and my father made good enough money with the family business – house building.”

“Is that why you left, then?” Jack asked. “To get a better job?”

“Yes, and no. That’s what I told my parents, but it’s more complicated; I was expected to join the family business too, but I am not built for house-building, if I may. Moreover my parents were pressuring me to get married, and… I absolutely don’t want to. That and me being me, well… It wasn’t safe for me anymore then. And I knew I couldn’t grow as I was supposed to, you know? So I left and I found a job as a journalist here. It pays the bills, and there are probably the same rumours about me at the office that there were back home, but it just means that most of my coworkers ignore me instead of being downright nasty, so that’s good enough for me.”

Bitty didn’t know why he was trusting Jack with all this information. Why would he even imply that he is an invert after all? There could be jail at the end of the road!

But when he saw Jack’s soft smile turn towards him, and his knowing eyes, he knew he had taken the right decision here.

“Life is not easy for people different, is it?”

“No. It’s not.”

“My family went to America in hope they’ll have a better life, and they’ll be able to live as themselves… But, the thing is, America is a melting pot. And it’s boiling alive those who do not conform.”

Jack sighed a little, and he played with his mug.

“Can we… Speak about happier thoughts? Tell me more about what you liked about home?”

“Oh! No problem! So- there is my Moomaw, you know…”

If Jack fell asleep at the end of the night in Bitty's armchair, well at least it meant he would be here in time for breakfast in the morrow.

**Following morning.**

Bitty made his way to the train station, at the other side of the Cove Basin, right after work. Ah, if he didn’t know Providence before, he definitely would after all of this running around!

Thankfully, there were numerous trains to Boston at all hours of the day and the night. They could get the five-thirty one, and hopefully they’d be back in time to catch some sleep.

Lardo was hard to spot in front of the station; she was not wearing a traditional, colorful oriental dress like at home (Viet, she had told him when asked), but a common, grey dress with an hesitant hem at the bottom and that seemed so rough to the touch, with a sturdy cotton shawl around her shoulders. Her long black hair was pinned in a strict bun, far from the overflow she used to sport.

“People look at me enough as it is,” she just told Bitty, when they hopped in the packed wagon.

They didn’t talk much around so many people, except for exchanging some pleasantries about their days – apparently, when she had seen her “boys” this morning, Nursey and Dex were this close to killing each other.

“One day I’ll just let them commit murder,” she said. “One will be dead, one in jail, it’ll be two less problems for me.”

“Chowder would be sad, wouldn’t he?”

“He’ll understand.”

Once off the train, Lardo stopped them at the first food stand she found to buy them some oysters for dinner (thanks to the generous bag of money Jack gave them for their adventure) before they made their way to Chinatown.

“Is it your first time in Boston?” Lardo asked.

“First time _out_. My train from Atlanta stopped in Boston, and there I took another to Providence. So I’ve only seen the station.”

“I lived here from my birth ‘till I moved to Providence a few months back. Don’t worry, I know my way around.”

“Why did you leave? If I may ask?”

“I… Got into a disagreement with my old employer, in a… special shop.”

That’s all she’d say, sitting on a stool at a food stand in a crowded street, so she and Bitty quickly finished eating to rush to the magical quarter of the city.

It was situated in a street right next to Chinatown; apparently, the community was bigger than in Providence, where only one building basement had been converted into a bunch of small, cheap shops, plus less than half-a-dozen bigger boutiques scattered in the street. Here, all the basements of the bloc had been repurposed, and there were numerous shops here and there in the upper floors, most of them disguised as salons. It’s in one of those fake salons that Lardo led Bitty, at the third floor of a residential building.

In front of the door, she asked Bitty to make sure no one was around before knocking. A small noise let them know that the judas hole had opened, so Lardo snapped her fingers until creating a small flame that started dancing on her hand.

The door opened, and Lardo urged Bitty inside.

The place, which was a repurposed small apartment, was a mess. There were books **everywhere _._** Shelves against all the walls, on the way, on the doors, books piled on tables, on counters, on sofas, on the floor. The middle-aged lady who opened the door silently went back behind the counter in the main room, where she went back to talking with two customers about something.

“Wow. Is that a shoemaker shop?” Bitty joked, impressed.

“Obviously. Well, Miss Atley is busy with patrons, so let’s try to see if we can find something here,” Lardo said, pointing to a corner. “It’s the medical and counter-spell books. I think? I always get lost in here.”

Bitty started to scan all the titles, but quickly realised he wouldn’t be of much help. A good part of the books weren’t in English, and even those that were, he couldn’t understand.

 _‘Symposium on Mandrake Effects; Spellbount, Potions, Transfig. short and long-term’_? What was that supposed to _mean_?

“Uh, that’s why I hate medical magic,” Lardo said, holding a big grimoire in her hands. “The good ones are all in Latin or in Chinese characters. I don’t speak Latin, I don’t read Chinese characters.”

“Aren’t there any translations?”

“Some, but not much, it’s expensive to translate. Most white sorcerers were taught Latin anyway. But sadly for me, my parents never taught me to read Chinese characters…”

“They’re not wizards too? If it were that useful, they surely would have taught you, no?”

“My grandma was a witch, not my mother. But I never met her, my parents left the place when the French arrived. I was born here, in Boston. I don’t think they expected me to show any magical inclination.”

“So… You’re born a witch, you don’t become one?”

“I’m not really sure. I know some magical parents can wake magic in their kids, but most of the time you’re born like this – but you only start to do magic after a few years. How did you think you can become a witch?”

“Oh, you know. There’s rumours that witches get their powers by laying with Satan.”

“Ah! Don’t worry. I didn’t lay with any of your demons.”

“I promise I wouldn’t judge you. We all make mistakes.”

They searched some more; at one moment, Bitty found a book in German he couldn’t understand but with pictures of a frog being turned into a man, so he showed it to Lardo.

“It’s already the spell I’m using to turn them back. But the witch that cursed them didn’t use the same spell as in the example, so… I can only turn them human for a few hours. I fear I can’t help them much until I find the exact spell they’re under.”

“Will they stay Frogs all their lives?”

“Not if the lady dies before them,” Lardo said. “Dex already proposed to track her down to kill her, of course. It’s a big no.”

“And… Wouldn’t there be more specialised sorcerers that could help?”

“Maybe,” Lardo explained. “But healers are _expensive_. Especially for something like this, where they have no idea of the spell they’re trying to undo. They’re also always healing magical people in priority, as a matter of principle because magical people can’t go to common doctors in fear of getting caught. Anyway; Nursey and Chowder’s families are well-off, but they can’t access such a big fund without raising some questions, so maybe they could pay one when they inherit something or become more independent. Dex would need to sell fishes at the market for years before saving enough money for this. I only make them pay me two dollars a week for two spells a day and the research, so I’m their best option until they know what they have.”

“And… Would such a healer be an option for Jack’s father?”

“It would, but… The aggressor is still out there, isn’t he? If Zimmermann wakes up, this bad guy will be quick to learn the news and would come to finish the job. We talked about it with Shitty the other day; sadly, as for now Zimmermann is safer as a vegetable. It doesn’t mean we can take our time, as he’s getting weaker every day. So, right now we need to look for what he has and how to fix it, and we’ll fix it more quickly and easily once it’ll be safe to do so.”

“I see, I see…”

“Sadly, it means more research for us. And I hate that and I’m terrible at it.”

Bitty frowned at that. Slowly, he started, trying not to sound aggressive:

“So… if you’re not good at counter-spelling, and healing, and researching, then…”

“Well, I’m great at _hexing_ people. If you need to curse someone, I’m your woman. I also like to grow plants and make potions. Do you need to curse someone? My rates are low – starting at twelve pence…”

“I am _not_ cursing anyone!”

“Your loss,” Lardo shrugged.

The customers who were talking with the shopkeeper bid their adieux, and they left the place; Lardo took her chance to talk to the woman before she got roped into something else.

“Good evening, Miss Atley. We need the best books you have on magically-induced comas. And on Frogs. If you’ve got anything new regarding were-frogs since last time, I mean.”

“What have you gotten yourself into this time, Larissa?”

“Nothing illegal. I wouldn’t dare.”

“You better not. Follow me in the reserve, I’ve got some rarities you could consult. Your friend is staying here.”

Lardo just nodded to Bitty before following Atley in another room of the shop; Bitty, not sure of what to do with himself, sat on the first sofa and took a book that was laying around.

_Thousands of Mushrooms – their harvest, their uses, their secrets._

Mushrooms. He sure hoped Lardo wouldn't take long in there.

They finally went back to Providence on a late train, bags full of books all paid thanks to Jack’s generously garnished coin pouch. Most of them to help Robert, of course, (Lardo didn’t end up purchasing the one for the Frogs, but planned to go back to consult it at a later date), but Bitty couldn’t help but sneak in the pile a tiny, handwritten cookbook. It was only a few pence! Of course Jack wouldn’t mind that he used the money for that, would he? He could always cook a little something from it as a thank you.

Lardo fell asleep as soon as the train left the station, and she was unresponsive until they arrived and Bitty had to shake her awake.

“Here,” he told her, giving her the remaining of the money Jack had lent them, “you’re far. Take a carriage home.”

“And you? You’re going to be walking?”

“I’m only twenty minutes away, do not worry. See you in the morning.”

“In the morning. Good night, Bitty.”

**Following morning.**

Bitty’s house was slowly, but surely, starting to look like a social salon. He should make everyone pay for membership, really.

Today, Shitty, Jack, Lardo and the three Frogs were there for breakfast.

Well, the Frogs arrived late, Dex followed by Nursey carrying a croaking frog in his hands.

“I met with him on College Hill, and he turned right in front of Brown!” Nursey said, panicked. “I hope no one noticed.”

“I’m tired. Let me eat some bread and I’ll turn you back, Chow,” Lardo sighed.

There definitely wasn’t enough room in Bitty’s tiny apartment, and, once Chowder was turned back into a human, the Frogs had to sit on the bed while Shitty and Jack were squeezing on the ratty old sofa and Bitty and Lardo had the chairs; at least, now, he had people around him who liked to eat his baking instead of ignoring it, and him. Now, if only he had time to actually bake for them all!

“So,” Lardo asked, passing around the jam jar to the nearest Frog, “let’s pool together the information we got. So, in Boston; nothing conclusive. I purchased some books about magical-induced comas, but I have a lot of reading to do, and even then I am not sure I will be able to help a lot.”

“But Bob’s state isn’t getting any better,” Shitty pointed out. “Comas put a huge toll on the body, and even if stalling is the safest option for now because the aggressor will probably ignore him, we’ll need to find a good healer to hire sooner rather than later.”

“I will try to ask around to find the contact details of a healer or two,” Lardo said. “But I’m telling you already, we’ll probably very quickly end up in the same impasse as with the Frogs; money or not, non-magical people are low in priority for the most reputable healers.”

Jack’s neutral face broke down at that.

“But- If it’s a magical injury… There must be someone, somewhere- if I give the money…”

“Don’t worry, Jack,” Lardo tried to reassure him, “there surely is someone, somewhere. We just need to find a way to buy time to find them. I can’t wake him up, but I certainly can make him hang on until then.”

Jack nodded at that, his hands clasped on his tea bowl. Bitty didn’t have enough mugs and glasses for everyone.

“But Jack, tell us more about your own investigation, will you?” Lardo asked. “Did you find anything?”

Ah, yes, that he did. Jack pulled out the letters he had found in his father’s safe – plans and designs, and not-signed letters, from a man who apparently had business with Robert.

“My father manufactured after hours clothes and sold them to a magician -we only have his initials, M. L.- until he wanted out because he didn’t earn enough money.”

“So, the magician wanted _him_ out…” Nursey concluded.

Lardo was scanning the content of the letters, scratching her chin in contemplation.

“So… That would explain the weird Zimmermann coat I found in a second-hand bin. My, those plans – if your father managed to pull it off, it is genius. Directly embedding the magic in the threads of the fabric? It’s been generations of people trying to do that because it seems a much better idea than treating the clothes after the production, but nothing worked before.”

“According to those notes, the seams are still faulty,” Bitty pointed out, reading the plans.

“Yes, but the fabric is soft and elastic, just like regular, non-treated fabric, and just as resistant to magic, burning and explosions. Some more time, and he’d probably have found how to make the seams resistant too,” Lardo said.

“Maybe, but not at a big enough profit,” Jack explained. “He can’t mass-produce it, he needs a magician to put the magic in the fabric, which takes too much time, and his workers would start to ask too many questions. He can’t have mass-production and secrecy, and he needs mass-production to make enough profit. So, that’s why he dropped it.”

“I am a bit disappointed that in the end, this whole story boils down to the first, visceral vice of humanity;” Shitty stated. “Money.”

“There’s still a magician out there wanting me dead before I report him,” Jack deadpanned. “I sure hope it’s not too boring for your tastes.”

“Ah, Jackabelle, my friend, my sun, do not worry: you are just boring enough for me.”

All of that was nice, but Bitty threw a quick glance to the clock on the wall.

He needed to be out in ten minutes if he wanted to be in time for work.

“Far be it from me to suggest having you out of my home,” Bitty said, “but I can’t afford to be late once again. So, what is the plan now?”

Shitty immediately took his notebook and his pen out, ready to note everything that would be said.

“Clearly. We don’t know where the aggressor is, or even his name,” Lardo said. “So we need to stall and research some more on how to stabilise Zimmermann’s state to buy time, during which we’ll be able to find a healer, and hopefully the sorcerer.”

“That, or,” Chowder proposed. “This chap is after Jack, right? So… Instead of looking for him…”

“We could make him look for Jack,” Dex finished pensive. “If Jack publicly comes back, then he will run to finish the job before the police can come interrogate Jack on what happened, and risk being outed…”

“You want to use me as bait?” Jack asked, incredulous.

“It’s the best option,” Chowder insisted. “Well. I _reckon_.”

“This is stupid, and dangerous,” Lardo cut him off. “We’re just going to end up with a dead Zimmermann on our hands.”

“Yes, but we’d actually be able to have the upper hand on the situation,” Nursey said. “We get to decide when, and where, the chap will come. If we keep Jack hidden, we’ll only risk to have him find us at any moment, without us being ready for it.”

“Regardless of the debate on whether or not we should choose to One, keep Bob alive or Two, kill Jack,” Shitty added, “I think it would be a smart move to involve Ransom and Holster. They’re the Zimmermann’s bodyguards – surely, even if they don’t know of magic, they saw this “M. L.” if he was meeting up with Bob regularly. Or they know someone who knows him; they’re friends with the entire city, it sometimes feels like. So… What should we do?”

**"We need to research first, helping Bob is the priority."**

**"We should go straight ahead and use Jack as a bait. It’s reckless, but the easiest."**

On Friday night, at ten, Bitty had a whole article drafted about Jack’s reappearance, explaining that the causes of his leaving were still unknown but it seemed like he had actually retreated to the countryside for health reasons. Jack (clean-shaven, his hair cut, wearing a smart, impeccable outfit) went out of a carriage in front of his parent’s home at eleven, in the middle of a street, where there were still some passersby, saluted people there, and was immediately picked up by Ransom and Holster who escorted him in the apartment. Bitty got a telegram at home from his boss at eleven-ten asking for an article as soon as possible for the morning’s edition, even if it meant running there, and Bitty sent the draft to the office at eleven-thirty through a messenger boy. Hopefully, Mr Bickerstaff would be too engrossed in re-organising the entire paper and wouldn’t comment on the fact that Bitty couldn’t have written such a long piece with no notice.

On his way to work at seven, Bitty stopped at the kiosque to take a look at the papers; the _Providence Gazette_ was the only one who had managed to pull off a front-page article on the subject, securing some sales and a very happy boss who was getting frustrated with Bitty’s new habit of running around instead of working; but a few others, like the _Rhode Island Daily,_ had managed a little insert promising more info in the midday or the evening edition.

At work, Bitty was congratulated for the article – apparently, the paper was sold out in a few places. Ah, a glowing praise at his workplace was a great conclusion to the last two weeks of running around! Hopefully, that meant his co-workers would ignore him a bit less now. And that he could go home early.

Shitty was waiting for him with Lardo and Ransom, one of the two bodyguards, at the end of his work day. Ransom led them without a word to the nearest, noisy pub, and they sat in a corner far away from the curious.

“Thanks again for all you’ve done to look for Jack,” Ransom told Bitty. “This ‘M. L.’ will probably come tonight, especially if he expects the police to stop by tomorrow.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s quite a big thing, really. Here, it’s from Alicia,” Ransom said, pushing a pouch on the table. “And if you need anything else, you’re welcome to stop by anytime.”

“So, this is it, uh? Will it be all done soon?” Bitty asked.

“Hopefully. I came to bring this young lady to the apartment, she apparently spent the day preparing traps to catch our man.”

“It’s still going to be dangerous,” Lardo conceded. “But everything implies that the man is working alone, so we should be good.

Shitty just looked at Bitty, questioning. 

**"We did our part. All the luck in the world, friends."**

**"We should help. Let us come."**

“Room 203, right?” Bitty asked for the fifth time.

“Yes. It’s right there,” Shitty replied.

“I feel bad.”

“You shouldn’t. You should be glad, alright?”

Slowly, they knocked at the door and Shitty opened the door for Bitty, who was carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers in his arms.

Jack smiled immediately when recognising them – or at least, he tried, but it was hard to with a huge bandage around his head. You could only see that his right eye was patched, and the other one swollen, and his lip busted.

“Oh, goodness gracious,” Bitty said, discarding the bouquet on the nearest table to go run to Jack’s side. “What happened?”

“I- well. The man broke into the house, started to attack me. I managed to physically fight back, and then Ransom, Holster and Lardo neutralised him. Still got my eye wounded in the process; the doctors are quite certain it is lost.”

“Oh…” Bitty let out, as he began to fuss over his friend. “That’s awful.”

“It’s… It's okay, I guess. I’m still alive, everyone else has minor injuries – mostly burns and cuts, the man has been stopped. It’s okay.”

“What will become of him? He’s going to be tried in the common, non-magical system?” Shitty asked.

“He’s been arrested by the police, but according to Lardo he’s going to be ‘snatched’ away to the magical world to serve his sentence there. Or he’ll be poisoned if they can’t get him. That’s what commonly happens to avoid magic being discovered.”

Bitty nodded at that. Ah, finally some good news! With this man off the grid, the Zimmermanns would certainly be able to live without having to look over their shoulders at each corner.

“You’re a very dashing pirate, Jackie,” Shitty said, smiling.

“Thank you. I already know you’re planning on gifting me a boat, Shits, so cut this smirk.”

“And a parrot! Ah, you’ll make great pictures, Jackabelle!”

“I am _not_ dropping everything to become a pirate, Shits! I’m one century and a half too late for that!”

“ _Please_!”

“Shitty, leave the poor man alone,” Bitty chastised. “You’d obviously need to cut his hand before making him a pirate.”

“What?” Jack shouted, bringing both hands near his heart. “Et tu, Brute?”

Yes. Bitty was certain that everything was well. Jack was back in the public world, his family and their friends were safe – now, Lardo could focus on finding how to wake Robert from his coma, and hopefully, things will only get better from now on.

**Try again...**

At the exact moment, the window of the living-room exploded, Bitty regretted coming.

He heard shouts, saw a big flash, felt a dull, intense pain – and next thing he knew, he was floating. People were yelling, but he only could hear a faint buzz. He fell back.

When he woke up again, the apartment was ravaged and Lardo was checking his pulse.

“You’re alive.”

“What…”

Lardo shook her head.

“Don’t talk. Your throat is bruised. Everyone is alive, but injured.”

She seemed to understand the hundred of questions in Bitty’s lost, glassy eyes, because she added:

“The man fled when the police arrived. He very probably knows our names and our identities now. We’re leaving town as soon as we can. We can’t win.”

“But…”

“We did what we could, Bitty. But you and Shitty are gravely injured already. We can’t risk it.”

Two days later, Bitty was saying his goodbyes to Jack and Alicia at the train station. They had tickets to go back to Montreal, and only their suitcases and their coats.

Shitty wasn’t there, but they had stopped at the hospital to oversee his transfer to Boston earlier this morning.

“So… Where are you going?” Jack asked.

“I’ve found a job in a sister publication in Newport. My ferry leaves in an hour.”

“I’m sorry things went so sour.”

“I shouldn’t have insisted on being here, that’s all,” Bitty said. “Don’t worry.”

“Take care of yourself, right?” Alicia said, tears in her eyes. “Thank you again for bringing me back my son.”

The conductor whistle, signalling the travellers that the train was about to leave. After a last goodbye, Jack and Alicia rushed into the train. Bitty knew it; this was certainly the last time he would see them in his life.

But now, with them in Montreal, Shitty in Boston, Lardo and the Frogs rushing to New York City, he wasn’t sure of what he would be doing with his life.

The last telegram they all exchanged was ten days later, to share the news of Robert’s passing.

**Try again...**

They decided to meet again this afternoon to hunt for information. Bitty had spent the day and the night before working so was able to leave early in the afternoon; as soon as Mr Bickerstaff agreed, he all but ran to Lardo’s apartment, where the Frogs, Jack, and Shitty had been told to meet up.

He must have seemed stressed out when he arrived, because Lardo gave him a cigarette without needing him to ask.

Dex was the last one to arrive, and once here, they could start to organise.

Shitty, who didn’t work on Saturdays and had spent the day reading grimoires and medical books, had planned a rendez-vous with Holster and Ransom in one hour near the Zimmermanns’ apartment with Lardo to talk about the situation. The Frogs, Jack, and Bitty would take over the research duties. Bitty was less than overjoyed at the idea of reading books, but it’s not like they had a lot of other things they could do.

“What are you going to ask Ransom and Holster?” Jack asked Shitty.

“About Bob’s late nights at the factory, about M. L. If they feel like the apartment is spied on. They obviously must know so many things about it all.”

“They were the ones sending telegrams for my father. They must have M. L.’s address, his name… At least a place related to him, even if only a salon or a club.”

“Don’t worry, Jack, we have a hundred of questions to ask,” Shitty reassured his friend, as he got up to put on his coat and his top hat. “Lardo, are we ready to go?”

“Yes, yes. Frogs, make sure those two don’t snoop,” she ordered, pointing to Jack and Bitty. “And _do not move_. See you later.”

They started to search through the pile of books that Lardo had put on the floor for them. A fair number of them were in German or French, meaning Jack was the only one who could read them; Chowder could read those in Chinese, even if more often than not he stumbled over words he had never encountered before. Nursey had been taught Latin in school and could guess what the books and Latin were about, and Dex and Bitty had to share the reading of the few English books. Ah, Bitty felt useless and a bit stupid, to be honest.

A few pages got bookmarked in the process, for Lardo to review upon her return; hopefully, in the hour they spent reading all those books, they would have found _one_ thing that would help?

“I have something,” Jack proposed, “it says to sacrifice an owl to the Moon.”

“An owl? No! Do not sacrifice _owls_! It can’t be that! They’re cute!” Bitty defended.

“My German is lacking. I speak _Yiddish_. I do what I can.”

“I’m reading something about wake-up spells to, well, wake-up on time in the morning,” Nursey said. “Maybe if we turn up the power, it could wake someone from a coma?”

“Oh, shush! I think I have something!”

Chowder proudly turned the grimoire so everyone could see it – no one could read a single word, of course, but there was a nice illustration of a cauldron.

“It’s a potion that is said to wake even the dead. It’s quite easy to make, I dare say. It’s just that, I don’t know how to read half of the ingredients.”

“Can you read the other half?” Jack asked.

“Yes, the easiest ones. Some oils, bones, powders, a few plants.”

“Are those things Lardo has here?”

“I doubt it,” Nursey said. “Crap’s expensive, and takes a lot of room, and is hard to hide. She only buys what she needs, doesn’t stock much.”

“Is there some place we could go to purchase the ingredients we’d need?”

Oh. Bitty wasn’t sure of where this was going, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to like it.

“There’s an apothecary a street down,” Chowder said. “I’ve never been there, but I know Lardo goes there.”

“Alright. We’re going, then,” Jack said.

“What? No. Lardo told us to stay here,” Dex retorted.

“We’re not going anywhere and I don’t have the energy to read one more word,” Jack argued. “Let’s go buy as much as we can for this potion, and maybe it’ll be just what we need to wake up my father! I hate being so passive, I need to do _something_!”

“Lardo wants us to stay here because the place has been warded ever since Bitty and Shitty stormed here. We’re safe here, not outside,” Dex added.

“And? I’ll still have to leave to go back to my place tonight. I’m going to this apothecary.”

Jack got up, took his coat and his cap and stormed out, Chowder and Nursey hurrying to dress to go with him. Bitty sighed and dressed too, and he said to Dex:

“He’s right. We’re not accomplishing much, we’re all distracted. And you’re right, it’s not the safest option. But the more we are, the less danger, right?” 

“This is the worst idea,” Dex complained, but he still got up and grabbed his cap and his jacket to run after the others.

The apothecary was, indeed, quite close to Lardo’s apartment. It was still early in the evening, but the dusk was getting darker these days; no one had yet lighted up the streetlamps; and Bitty hoped they would do so soon. Upper South Side wasn’t a place he liked to be in in the dark.

“Ah! That’s here, I believe,” Nursey said, showing a shop. “It’s the only apothecary in the area, so I sure hope it is this.

The shop seemed perfectly normal, when they entered. Like any other apothecary. There were shelves full of drawers, plants turned upside-down to dry, jars with carefully written labels, a huge, finely wrought scale in the middle of a counter; nothing screamed ‘magic’ in there. Nursey had quickly explained on the way there that it was a front; regular apothecary upstairs, and the basement was the magic apothecary.

The shopkeeper was a young, short lady, with dark skin and curly hair in a complicated bun and huge glasses, and she was in the middle of a conversation with a man while filling a crate with empty glass jars for him.

“I’m just saying, this Tony is really nice, but he’s asking too many questions. I think he is onto something.”

“Stop it, Ford. He’s just way too curious about everything. No need to worry.”

“Hey! Isn’t that Whiskey?” Chowder greeted, with a huge grin. “Look Dex! It’s your friend Whiskey.”

“Chowder, don’t.”

Both the man and the shopkeeper, too engrossed in their conversation, startled, before turning around, uncomfortable.

“Ah! Good evening? May I help you?” the shopkeeper piped up.

“Hello, everyone,” Whiskey said.

“He’s working in a second-hand shop we always go to,” Nursey shushed to Jack, right next to him.

“We’re friends of Lardo. And… We need to… Go downstairs?” Jack tried.

“Alright…” the shopkeeper, Ford, said. “Prove it?”

Jack turned towards the Frogs, confused.

“I think we need to prove we can do, uhm. You know,” Bitty said.

“Yes, but,” Nursey replied, “neither of us five can do magic.”

Ford blinked at that, and she looked around the shop to make sure no one was here; and she told them:

“Sorry, you can’t go, then. And, magic? Haha, what are you talking about? There’s no such thing.”

“Ford, they’re good,” Whiskey vouched. “They come to the shop on the regular.”

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I got into this craft not even ten days ago. My boss had been clear on the fact that no one who can’t do magic could go downstairs. I can’t go risk my work like that.”

“What? It’s really time-sensitive, you know…,” Jack pleaded.

“I’m sorry. Come back Monday to see with my boss, or send your magician friend.”

“Oh, no…” Bitty sighed.

If the Frogs seemed downcast by those news, it was nothing next to Jack, who looked the most desperate Bitty had ever seen him.

He should do something.

**"I may not have magic. But I have some scones."**

**"We won’t make you risk your work. We’ll be back later."**

Bitty’s house was slowly, but surely, starting to look like a social salon. He should make everyone pay for membership, really.

Today, Shitty, Jack, Lardo and the three Frogs were there for breakfast.

Well, the Frogs arrived late, Dex followed by Nursey carrying a croaking frog in his hands.

“I met with him on College Hill, and he turned right in front of Brown!” Nursey said, panicked. “I hope no one noticed.”

“I’m tired. Let me eat some bread and I’ll turn you back, Chow,” Lardo sighed.

There definitely wasn’t enough room in Bitty’s tiny apartment, and, once Chowder was turned back into a human, the Frogs had to sit on the bed while Shitty and Jack were squeezing on the ratty old sofa and Bitty and Lardo had the chairs; at least, now, he had people around him who liked to eat his baking instead of ignoring it, and him. Now, if only he had time to actually bake for them all!

“So,” Lardo asked, passing around the jam jar to the nearest Frog, “let’s pool together the information we got. So, in Boston; nothing conclusive. I purchased some books about magical-induced comas, but I have a lot of reading to do, and even then I am not sure I will be able to help a lot.”

“But Bob’s state isn’t getting any better,” Shitty pointed out. “Comas put a huge toll on the body, and even if stalling is the safest option for now because the aggressor will probably ignore him, we’ll need to find a good healer to hire sooner rather than later.”

“I will try to ask around to find the contact details of a healer or two,” Lardo said. “But I’m telling you already, we’ll probably very quickly end up in the same impasse as with the Frogs; money or not, non-magical people are low in priority for the most reputable healers.”

Jack’s neutral face broke down at that.

“But- If it’s a magical injury… There must be someone, somewhere- if I give the money…”

“Don’t worry, Jack,” Lardo tried to reassure him, “there surely is someone, somewhere. We just need to find a way to buy time to find them. I can’t wake him up, but I certainly can make him hang on until then.”

Jack nodded at that, his hands clasped on his tea bowl. Bitty didn’t have enough mugs and glasses for everyone.

“But Jack, tell us more about your own investigation, will you?” Lardo asked. “Did you find anything?”

Ah, yes, that he did. Jack pulled out the letters he had found in his father’s safe – plans and designs, and not-signed letters, from a man who apparently had business with Robert.

“My father manufactured after hours clothes and sold them to a magician -we only have his initials, M. L.- until he wanted out because he didn’t earn enough money.”

“So, the magician wanted _him_ out…” Nursey concluded.

Lardo was scanning the content of the letters, scratching her chin in contemplation.

“So… That would explain the weird Zimmermann coat I found in a second-hand bin. My, those plans – if your father managed to pull it off, it is genius. Directly embedding the magic in the threads of the fabric? It’s been generations of people trying to do that because it seems a much better idea than treating the clothes after the production, but nothing worked before.”

“According to those notes, the seams are still faulty,” Bitty pointed out, reading the plans.

“Yes, but the fabric is soft and elastic, just like regular, non-treated fabric, and just as resistant to magic, burning and explosions. Some more time, and he’d probably have found how to make the seams resistant too,” Lardo said.

“Maybe, but not at a big enough profit,” Jack explained. “He can’t mass-produce it, he needs a magician to put the magic in the fabric, which takes too much time, and his workers would start to ask too many questions. He can’t have mass-production and secrecy, and he needs mass-production to make enough profit. So, that’s why he dropped it.”

“I am a bit disappointed that in the end, this whole story boils down to the first, visceral vice of humanity;” Shitty stated. “Money.”

“There’s still a magician out there wanting me dead before I report him,” Jack deadpanned. “I sure hope it’s not too boring for your tastes.”

“Ah, Jackabelle, my friend, my sun, do not worry: you are just boring enough for me.”

All of that was nice, but Bitty threw a quick glance to the clock on the wall.

He needed to be out in ten minutes if he wanted to be in time for work.

“Far be it from me to suggest having you out of my home,” Bitty said, “but I can’t afford to be late once again. So, what is the plan now?”

Shitty immediately took his notebook and his pen out, ready to note everything that would be said.

“Clearly. We don’t know where the aggressor is, or even his name,” Lardo said. “So we need to stall and research some more on how to stabilise Zimmermann’s state to buy time, during which we’ll be able to find a healer, and hopefully the sorcerer.”

“That, or,” Chowder proposed. “This chap is after Jack, right? So… Instead of looking for him…”

“We could make him look for Jack,” Dex finished pensive. “If Jack publicly comes back, then he will run to finish the job before the police can come interrogate Jack on what happened, and risk being outed…”

“You want to use me as bait?” Jack asked, incredulous.

“It’s the best option,” Chowder insisted. “Well. I _reckon_.”

“This is stupid, and dangerous,” Lardo cut him off. “We’re just going to end up with a dead Zimmermann on our hands.”

“Yes, but we’d actually be able to have the upper hand on the situation,” Nursey said. “We get to decide when, and where, the chap will come. If we keep Jack hidden, we’ll only risk to have him find us at any moment, without us being ready for it.”

“Regardless of the debate on whether or not we should choose to One, keep Bob alive or Two, kill Jack,” Shitty added, “I think it would be a smart move to involve Ransom and Holster. They’re the Zimmermann’s bodyguards – surely, even if they don’t know of magic, they saw this “M. L.” if he was meeting up with Bob regularly. Or they know someone who knows him; they’re friends with the entire city, it sometimes feels like. So… What should we do?”

**"We need to research first, helping Bob is the priority."**

**"We should go straight ahead and use Jack as a bait. It’s reckless, but the easiest."**

They decided to meet again this afternoon to hunt for information. Bitty had spent the day and the night before working so was able to leave early in the afternoon; as soon as Mr Bickerstaff agreed, he all but ran to Lardo’s apartment, where the Frogs, Jack, and Shitty had been told to meet up.

He must have seemed stressed out when he arrived, because Lardo gave him a cigarette without needing him to ask.

Dex was the last one to arrive, and once here, they could start to organise.

Shitty, who didn’t work on Saturdays and had spent the day reading grimoires and medical books, had planned a rendez-vous with Holster and Ransom in one hour near the Zimmermanns’ apartment with Lardo to talk about the situation. The Frogs, Jack, and Bitty would take over the research duties. Bitty was less than overjoyed at the idea of reading books, but it’s not like they had a lot of other things they could do.

“What are you going to ask Ransom and Holster?” Jack asked Shitty.

“About Bob’s late nights at the factory, about M. L. If they feel like the apartment is spied on. They obviously must know so many things about it all.”

“They were the ones sending telegrams for my father. They must have M. L.’s address, his name… At least a place related to him, even if only a salon or a club.”

“Don’t worry, Jack, we have a hundred of questions to ask,” Shitty reassured his friend, as he got up to put on his coat and his top hat. “Lardo, are we ready to go?”

“Yes, yes. Frogs, make sure those two don’t snoop,” she ordered, pointing to Jack and Bitty. “And _do not move_. See you later.”

They started to search through the pile of books that Lardo had put on the floor for them. A fair number of them were in German or French, meaning Jack was the only one who could read them; Chowder could read those in Chinese, even if more often than not he stumbled over words he had never encountered before. Nursey had been taught Latin in school and could guess what the books and Latin were about, and Dex and Bitty had to share the reading of the few English books. Ah, Bitty felt useless and a bit stupid, to be honest.

A few pages got bookmarked in the process, for Lardo to review upon her return; hopefully, in the hour they spent reading all those books, they would have found _one_ thing that would help?

“I have something,” Jack proposed, “it says to sacrifice an owl to the Moon.”

“An owl? No! Do not sacrifice _owls_! It can’t be that! They’re cute!” Bitty defended.

“My German is lacking. I speak _Yiddish_. I do what I can.”

“I’m reading something about wake-up spells to, well, wake-up on time in the morning,” Nursey said. “Maybe if we turn up the power, it could wake someone from a coma?”

“Oh, shush! I think I have something!”

Chowder proudly turned the grimoire so everyone could see it – no one could read a single word, of course, but there was a nice illustration of a cauldron.

“It’s a potion that is said to wake even the dead. It’s quite easy to make, I dare say. It’s just that, I don’t know how to read half of the ingredients.”

“Can you read the other half?” Jack asked.

“Yes, the easiest ones. Some oils, bones, powders, a few plants.”

“Are those things Lardo has here?”

“I doubt it,” Nursey said. “Crap’s expensive, and takes a lot of room, and is hard to hide. She only buys what she needs, doesn’t stock much.”

“Is there some place we could go to purchase the ingredients we’d need?”

Oh. Bitty wasn’t sure of where this was going, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to like it.

“There’s an apothecary a street down,” Chowder said. “I’ve never been there, but I know Lardo goes there.”

“Alright. We’re going, then,” Jack said.

“What? No. Lardo told us to stay here,” Dex retorted.

“We’re not going anywhere and I don’t have the energy to read one more word,” Jack argued. “Let’s go buy as much as we can for this potion, and maybe it’ll be just what we need to wake up my father! I hate being so passive, I need to do _something_!”

“Lardo wants us to stay here because the place has been warded ever since Bitty and Shitty stormed here. We’re safe here, not outside,” Dex added.

“And? I’ll still have to leave to go back to my place tonight. I’m going to this apothecary.”

Jack got up, took his coat and his cap and stormed out, Chowder and Nursey hurrying to dress to go with him. Bitty sighed and dressed too, and he said to Dex:

“He’s right. We’re not accomplishing much, we’re all distracted. And you’re right, it’s not the safest option. But the more we are, the less danger, right?” 

“This is the worst idea,” Dex complained, but he still got up and grabbed his cap and his jacket to run after the others.

The apothecary was, indeed, quite close to Lardo’s apartment. It was still early in the evening, but the dusk was getting darker these days; no one had yet lighted up the streetlamps; and Bitty hoped they would do so soon. Upper South Side wasn’t a place he liked to be in in the dark.

“Ah! That’s here, I believe,” Nursey said, showing a shop. “It’s the only apothecary in the area, so I sure hope it is this.

The shop seemed perfectly normal, when they entered. Like any other apothecary. There were shelves full of drawers, plants turned upside-down to dry, jars with carefully written labels, a huge, finely wrought scale in the middle of a counter; nothing screamed ‘magic’ in there. Nursey had quickly explained on the way there that it was a front; regular apothecary upstairs, and the basement was the magic apothecary.

The shopkeeper was a young, short lady, with dark skin and curly hair in a complicated bun and huge glasses, and she was in the middle of a conversation with a man while filling a crate with empty glass jars for him.

“I’m just saying, this Tony is really nice, but he’s asking too many questions. I think he is onto something.”

“Stop it, Ford. He’s just way too curious about everything. No need to worry.”

“Hey! Isn’t that Whiskey?” Chowder greeted, with a huge grin. “Look Dex! It’s your friend Whiskey.”

“Chowder, don’t.”

Both the man and the shopkeeper, too engrossed in their conversation, startled, before turning around, uncomfortable.

“Ah! Good evening? May I help you?” the shopkeeper piped up.

“Hello, everyone,” Whiskey said.

“He’s working in a second-hand shop we always go to,” Nursey shushed to Jack, right next to him.

“We’re friends of Lardo. And… We need to… Go downstairs?” Jack tried.

“Alright…” the shopkeeper, Ford, said. “Prove it?”

Jack turned towards the Frogs, confused.

“I think we need to prove we can do, uhm. You know,” Bitty said.

“Yes, but,” Nursey replied, “neither of us five can do magic.”

Ford blinked at that, and she looked around the shop to make sure no one was here; and she told them:

“Sorry, you can’t go, then. And, magic? Haha, what are you talking about? There’s no such thing.”

“Ford, they’re good,” Whiskey vouched. “They come to the shop on the regular.”

“I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I got into this craft not even ten days ago. My boss had been clear on the fact that no one who can’t do magic could go downstairs. I can’t go risk my work like that.”

“What? It’s really time-sensitive, you know…,” Jack pleaded.

“I’m sorry. Come back Monday to see with my boss, or send your magician friend.”

“Oh, no…” Bitty sighed.

If the Frogs seemed downcast by those news, it was nothing next to Jack, who looked the most desperate Bitty had ever seen him.

He should do something.

**"I may not have magic. But I have some scones."**

**"We won’t make you risk your work. We’ll be back later."**

“I see. We won’t bother you any longer. You said your boss would be here on Monday?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Alright, see you then.”

The walk back to Lardo’s was silent. Jack was visibly upset, and the Frogs weren’t sure of what to say; moreover, halfway there, there was a loud “Poof”. Bitty turned around, and saw; on the pavement, a big frog looking at him.

“Croa.”

“… Croa?” Bitty repeated.

“Oh, boy. Dex turned back into a frog, I fear,” Nursey said, bending to carry the frog – who immediately jumped into Chowder’s arms instead.

“We should hurry, then,” Chowder said, “before we turn back too.”

“You don’t say ‘ribbit’? You say ‘croa’?” Bitty insisted, but Chowder and Nursey were already walking towards Lardo’s building.

Next to him, Jack seemed so shocked.

“… They really are frogs?”

“Don’t ask _me._ ”

When Lardo and Shitty came back, barely five minutes after they reached the apartment, Chowder and Nursey had turned back into frogs too. She made them human again, and the first thing Chowder did when she had the back turned was to make a shush sign to Bitty and Jack – apparently, they better not mention the fact that they left her place when she had told them to stay put.

“Did Ransom and Holster give you any information?” Jack asked.

“Sadly, not really. They were staying in corridors and out of rooms whenever Bob had a meeting with our guy,” Shitty explained. “They never saw him. Which, now that I think about it, could mean that he maybe could fly to the window of Bob’s office in the factory? Can wizards and witches fly?”

“Some can,” Lardo explained. “So that’s a possibility.”

“They promised to look out for him, but explaining the situation without mentioning the magic was complicated. I doubt they’ll be more successful than we are.”

Jack took his head in his hands, and Bitty himself sighed in despair. He hated that. Today was useless.

“Maybe we should try the bait thing,” Bitty finally proposed. “We’re at a dead end right now anyway.”

“Yes. It’s risky, but maybe,” Jack conceded.

**"We should go straight ahead and use Jack as a bait. It’s reckless, but the easiest."**

Thankfully, Bitty had one than one trick up his sleeve, or here, his work bag. He pulled out a scone tin, half-full, that he presented to Ford.

“Are you trying to buy me?” she asked, suspiciously taking one of the biscuits.

“Yes.”

She tentatively bit in it. And she chewed. And chewed. And swallowed.

“Alright, you win here, honey.”

“Ford, are you really letting yourself be bribed with cookies?” Whiskey asked, frowning.

“Listen, what George doesn’t know, can’t hurt her. You can go already, I’ll join you after, I still need to finish with Whiskey here. This corridor, at the end, to the left – careful, the staircase is dark. Take a candle or tw. Don’t touch anything, a lot of the potions can explode.”

They followed her indications, entering the corridor just as the front bell rang again and they heard her greet with a cheerful “Hi, how may I help you?”

The staircase was dark, indeed. Bitty was leading the way with a candle that barely lit anything, and he was a bit scared, he’s not going to lie. A big, heavy wood door was right at the bottom of the stairs; Bitty needed to push it with his shoulder to open it.

It smelt rancid in there. A weird mixture of mushrooms, too many plants, and animals – it was probably due to the incredible number of high shelves on which were stocked innumerable potions, powders, plants, formalin jars, and where rats were running loose. You could see somewhat clearly thanks to floating candles and to the dormer at the top of the walls. There was a peculiar shining around it, as if there was a magic field. Maybe to stop the curious from looking inside?

“Boy, is it big,” Nursey said. “Chowder, give us the list of what we need, will you?”

They barely had the time to start to walk around the shelves that a loud ‘poof’ made itself heard.

“What was that?” Jack asked, panicked.

“Croa.”

“Oh, no!” Chowder cried. “Dex is back into a frog.”

“Damned, _we_ won’t stay human for long, then. Dex, go near the door, so we don’t forget you.”

“We should be quick, then. We need bat bones, right?”

Everyone focused on the shelves when the door slammed shut.

Bitty turned around immediately, alert – and he was right to be.

Right there, in the middle of the apothecary shop, a man was standing, smirking, wearing a dapper tweed coat, black trousers and a top hat that could rival in height with Shitty’s.

If Bitty had any doubt on who it could be, the way Jack tensed next to him would answer the question.

Oh, no.

He was but a journalist who wanted to do a good deed.

“Hello, Zimmermann.”

“How did you find me?”

“You’re not really discreet. It’s been a few days I saw you running around the city; I just needed to meet you in a place far from the police.”

Everything went quick at this moment. Nursey jumped on the guy, trying to punch him, just to be pushed against the wall in the movement of a hand; Chowder, who had ran to the closest shelf to review all the potions there and try to find something, abandoned it in less than ten seconds to go help Nursey to get up. Jack lunged on the door to open it, but it was locked: he couldn’t pull it open, and even him ramming his shoulder into it didn’t make it bulge.

The man turned towards Jack, his hand raised; and Bitty grabbed the nearest potion on the shelf behind him and threw it at the guy’s face.

It sadly didn’t have any effect, except for turning the man’s attention towards him.

So Bitty ran to the shelves.

**Run left**

**Run right**

Thankfully, Bitty had one than one trick up his sleeve, or here, his work bag. He pulled out a scone tin, half-full, that he presented to Ford.

“Are you trying to buy me?” she asked, suspiciously taking one of the biscuits.

“Yes.”

She tentatively bit in it. And she chewed. And chewed. And swallowed.

“Alright, you win here, honey.”

“Ford, are you really letting yourself be bribed with cookies?” Whiskey asked, frowning.

“Listen, what George doesn’t know, can’t hurt her. You can go already, I’ll join you after, I still need to finish with Whiskey here. This corridor, at the end, to the left – careful, the staircase is dark. Take a candle or tw. Don’t touch anything, a lot of the potions can explode.”

They followed her indications, entering the corridor just as the front bell rang again and they heard her greet with a cheerful “Hi, how may I help you?”

The staircase was dark, indeed. Bitty was leading the way with a candle that barely lit anything, and he was a bit scared, he’s not going to lie; thankfully, he could feel Jack’s hand on his shoulder to help him stay steady. A big, heavy wood door was right at the bottom of the stairs; Bitty needed to push it with his shoulder to open it.

It smelt rancid in there. A weird mixture of mushrooms, too many plants, and animals – it was probably due to the incredible number of high shelves on which were stocked innumerable potions, powders, plants, formalin jars, and where rats were running loose. You could see somewhat clearly thanks to floating candles and to the dormer at the top of the walls. There was a peculiar shining around it, as if there was a magic field. Maybe to stop the curious from looking inside?

“Boy, is it big,” Nursey said. “Chowder, give us the list of what we need, will you?”

They barely had the time to start to walk around the shelves that a loud ‘poof’ made itself heard.

“What was that?” Jack asked, panicked.

“Croa.”

“Oh, no!” Chowder cried. “Dex is back into a frog.”

“Damned, _we_ won’t stay human for long, then. Dex, go near the door, so we don’t forget you.”

“We should be quick, then. We need bat bones, right?”

Everyone focused on the shelves when the door slammed shut.

Bitty turned around immediately, alert – and he was right to be.

Right there, in the middle of the apothecary shop, a man was standing, smirking, wearing a dapper tweed coat, black trousers and a top hat that could rival in height with Shitty’s.

If Bitty had any doubt on who it could be, the way Jack tensed next to him would answer the question.

Oh, no.

He was but a journalist who wanted to do a good deed.

“Hello, Zimmermann.”

“How did you find me?”

“You’re not really discreet. It’s been a few days I saw you running around the city; I just needed to meet you in a place far from the police.”

Everything went quick at this moment. Nursey jumped on the guy, trying to punch him, just to be pushed against the wall in the movement of a hand; Chowder, who had ran to the closest shelf to review all the potions there and try to find something, abandoned it in less than ten seconds to go help Nursey to get up. Jack lunged on the door to open it, but it was locked: he couldn’t pull it open, and even him ramming his shoulder into it didn’t make it bulge.

The man turned towards Jack, his hand raised; and Bitty grabbed the nearest potion on the shelf behind him and threw it at the guy’s face.

It sadly didn’t have any effect, except for turning the man’s attention towards him.

So Bitty ran to the shelves.

**Run left**

**Run right**

This place was so big, there were so many shelves, almost like in a maze – and Bitty could hear the man following him, but he wasn’t throwing any spells, probably because touching a shelf would hurt him as much as Bitty.

**Run left**

**Run right**

This place was so big, there were so many shelves, almost like in a maze – and Bitty could hear the man following him, but he wasn’t throwing any spells, probably because touching a shelf would hurt him as much as Bitty.

**Run left**

**Run right**

Bitty was going around in circles, but he only could buy so much time. The man was still running after him. He needed to do something.

**Left**

**Right**

Bitty was going around in circles, but he only could buy so much time. The man was still running after him. He needed to do something.

**Left**

**Right**

Quick, Bitty, QUICK!

**Left**

**Right**

**OH.**

Quick, Bitty, QUICK!

**Left**

**Right**

**OH.**

Bitty suddenly stopped at the end of a shelf.

The man didn’t want to use magic in fear of the dangerous potions, right?

Bitty didn’t fear them. He was way too ignorant about what they could do.

So, when the man was getting closer to him, Bitty grabbed the shelf and yanked it down, bringing down all the potions on the man, the floor and himself, and bringing down some other shelves too. Big, huge fumes immediately appeared, and all went warm, and dark.

When Lardo, Dex, Shitty and Ford arrived in the room, the fumes were barely starting to evaporate.

Dex had managed to escape through the door when the man had entered the room, and had hopped towards Lardo’s apartment in hope to get some help – thankfully, he met her right outside the building, saving him the need to climb stairs as a frog, and she immediately understood something was up and turned him back – so they could run to the shop. Ford hadn’t heard a thing, the basement being warded and soundproofed to the extreme, and she was quite panicked to see Lardo, Shitty and Dex barging into the place, furious and lost.

The aggressor was still on the floor, unconscious, and severely burnt. Lardo immediately stunned him with a spell, while Ford ran upstairs to call for help.

“Nursey? Chowder? How are you?” Lardo asked.

Only two distinct croaks answered her. Ah; if Dex had turned back, they should have, too.

Jack was in the middle of the room, panicked. He was kneeling on the floor and breathing heavily.

“Jack, brother? You good?” Shitty asked, slowly. “Can I touch you?”

Jack didn’t reply. He was looking at the pile of clothing on the floor right by the fallen shelves – a cap, a second-hand jacket with sewn back, mismatched buttons.

Out of the pile of clothing, a third croaking could be heard, and a small, bright green head with huge eyes popped out.

**"Ribbit, ribbit."**

Bitty suddenly stopped at the end of a shelf.

The man didn’t want to use magic in fear of the dangerous potions, right?

Bitty didn’t fear them. He was way too ignorant about what they could do.

So, when the man was getting closer to him, Bitty grabbed the shelf and yanked it down, bringing down all the potions on the man, the floor and himself, and bringing down some other shelves too. Big, huge fumes immediately appeared, and all went warm, and dark.

When Lardo, Dex, Shitty and Ford arrived in the room, the fumes were barely starting to evaporate.

Dex had managed to escape through the door when the man had entered the room, and had hopped towards Lardo’s apartment in hope to get some help – thankfully, he met her right outside the building, saving him the need to climb stairs as a frog, and she immediately understood something was up and turned him back – so they could run to the shop. Ford hadn’t heard a thing, the basement being warded and soundproofed to the extreme, and she was quite panicked to see Lardo, Shitty and Dex barging into the place, furious and lost.

The aggressor was still on the floor, unconscious, and severely burnt. Lardo immediately stunned him with a spell, while Ford ran upstairs to call for help.

“Nursey? Chowder? How are you?” Lardo asked.

Only two distinct croaks answered her. Ah; if Dex had turned back, they should have, too.

Jack was in the middle of the room, panicked. He was kneeling on the floor and sobbing silently, his arms close to his chest.

“Jack, brother? You good?” Shitty asked, slowly. “Can I touch you?”

Jack didn’t reply. He was looking at the pile of clothing on the floor right by the fallen shelves – a cap, a second-hand jacket with sewn back, mismatched buttons, and then, back at his arms.

Slowly, he opened them: he was carrying a small, bright green animal with huge eyes and dark spots on the back, and it started to croak, too.

**"Ribbit, ribbit."**

“Here. You can put the shelf here.”

“Young lady, when we were asked to help to move your stuff, we expected to _help_ , not do everything.”

“Nonsense, Ransom! I am doing things! I’m busy ordering you around!”

“Jack, you’re done packing your stuff?” Holster asked. “The carriage won’t wait for two hours.”

Jack was finally coming back to the public world, after a month and a half of being off the grid. He let Lardo take the apartment he had been staying in, and she was happy to get the upgrade, especially when she learnt he had paid for six months of rent already.

Bitty wouldn’t complain, he thought, as he was helping emptying Lardo’s kitchen utensils. It was more than useful to have her just a floor above. He still needed to see her twice a day for her spells.

It had been less than a week, and he couldn’t really get used to his new life as a frog-man, to be honest. Jack had promised to pay Lardo’s fees for him and the Frogs as a thank you, so there was that at least; hopefully, they could find a long-term solution quickly.

The whole situation had made some noise in the magical world, even making the headlines in the few magical newspapers out there – with some luck, there would be a specialised healer or two who would accept to help out non-magical people against a good amount of cash and some good publicity. Especially if they now know that Bob waking up would mean knowledge on how to make better clothing. 

“Is anyone up for a beer or twenty?” Shitty asked, after he and Nursey had hid bags of books under the bed, far from Ransom and Holster’s eyes. “Jack is inviting.”

“Jack is _what_? No, no, Jack is _nothing_ , Shitty…”

Ah. Things were doing good, all in all.

**Try again...**

Two knocks, and the door opened as soon as Bitty shouted ‘Come in!’.

Jack was here, holding a huge bouquet of flowers and grinning like an idiot.

Ah, how Bitty had learnt to love him those past months! An idiot, certainly, but his very own idiot.

“Sorry we couldn’t see each other last week,” Jack said, putting the flowers in a vase.

“Do not worry,” Bitty replied, still focused on the bread he was kneading. “How is it going at the factory? Did the experiments work?”

“Not sure,” Jack admitted, leaning against the counter right next to Bitty. “We have no idea what the guy was doing exactly to put magic in the fabric, you know? There’s a new sorcerer, his name is Mashkov, who arrived last week to try some things. I think it’s going in the right direction with him, but we’re still far from the results the guy managed to have.”

“If it’s getting in the right direction, that’s all that matters. What does your father think about it?”

“The usual. That the profit margin will be ridiculously low for the time invested.”

“Ah, don’t listen to him. What you’re doing is great! I can’t wait to be able to wear comfortable clothing once again.”

“Mmh, don’t you want to take the clothing off?” Jack laughed, kissing Bitty’s cheek.

“Close the blinds, close the blinds!”

They still hugged for a while in the kitchen, neither of them really making a move to go close the blinds. It’s not like anyone could really see them anyway.

“May I take you out? There’s this food stand near the river…” Jack started.

“I’m sorry, sweetpea, but not tonight,” Bitty pouted. “Lardo is away, and I haven’t seen her since yesterday… I could turn into a frog at any moment.”

“Wow, yesterday? The new potion is working better, right?”

“Yes, but still not perfect. I can still get frogged at any moment. That, and it’s so cold! I’m _not_ going outside!”

“It’s only December, Bitty!”

They snuggled for a while, this time closing the blinds, and ate some soup Bitty had prepared, and snuggled some more.

Bitty never thought he would get to have this one day. He had never been this happy to leave Georgia to try his luck up North. Maybe, he was a frog sometimes, but honestly? The good outweighed the bad, really.

“My parents are going back to Montreal,” Jack finally said, when they were snuggling on the bed. “My father is getting better, he can walk now – even if with a cane. I’ll take over the factory, and he’ll focus back on jewellery.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“A bit sad they’re leaving. We’ll still see each other often, but it won’t be the same, you know?”

“Yes, I know, dear.”

Jack took a few moments, just looking at Bitty’s face, in silence. And he asked:

“Move in with me?”

To be honest? Bitty expected that from Jack Zimmermann.

“What will people say?”

“Probably way too many things. They always have things to say about people who are different. But people are always incredibly blind when two bachelors live together. Ollie and Wicky’s parents still think they’re looking for nice ladies to marry. And you saved my life. It’s an incredible excuse to explain why I lodge you.”

Bitty smiled at that.

“Let me think about it, sweetpea”, he said, but they both knew he was going to say yes.

**Try again...**


End file.
